The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa”

The report of our scientific consultants concludes that Mr. Tesla uses the subject known as «Trigger» to make machinery for altering the electromagnetic vibrations of his own brain. In other words, he uses the ball to control his mental activity, and thus he can communicate with time-shifted realities. I also report that the German intelligence is keenly interested in Mr. Tesla’s activities. In particular, a certain Mr. Krauser entered employ as a part-time assistant at Mr. Tesla’s laboratory; to our knowledge, Mr. Krauser is an agent of the German General Staff’s intelligence organ.

Mr. Tesla is decisively transferring his work to Long Island. Thus, in order to speed up our work, I am requesting your sanction for the possibility of extraction and subsequent copying of Mr. Tesla’s research records as well as the actual «Trigger» – by any means necessary, including extreme measures.

Considering the importance of this object to the interests of the Russian state, we will inform you immediately upon receipt of new information.

First Deputy Russian Envoy to the North American United States

Joseph C. Grabbe

***

The extraction of the subject of interest and of Mr. Tesla’s archive using extreme measures is strictly prohibited. Find an opportunity to obtain the materials by other means. Embed our agents in all of Mr. Tesla’s accessible communication channels. Report personally to myself and General V.A. Tselebrovsky on any new developments concerning Mr. Tesla.

7th Dept. of the 1st Division of the 2nd Quartermaster

General N.S. Ermolov

***

To: 1st (Military-statistical) Division of the 2nd Quartermaster, General A.P. Simonov

August 23, 1914

MEMORANDUM

Your Excellency,

I bring to your attention the mood of the intelligence officers of the General Staff.

Russia’s defeat in the war with Japan revealed significant shortcomings in the organization of our military intelligence. The war of 1904—1905 demonstrated the necessity of not only continuous reconnaissance during combat operations, but also of permanent surveillance within the territory of the probable opponent and other states, recruitment of agents, bribery of military and state officials, and counterintelligence, which is neglected, according to most intelligence officers. In addition, I offer the latest report from our agents on the case of Mr. Tesla.

According to our information, in the summer of 1914, when Serbia was at the center of events that led to the beginning of World War I, Mr. Tesla remained in America, taking part in soliciting funds for the Serbian army. Several times in the presence of the press, he expressed a very vague idea clearly related to his recent scientific developments. For instance: «The time will come when some scientific genius will invent a machine capable of destroying one or more armies in one action.»

We propose to maximally activate our group’s efforts to retrieve Mr. Tesla’s technical documents before the German intelligence service does so.

Colonel V.V. Sedyakin

CHAPTER 8

70° 4» 36» N170° 51» 12» EChaunsky District, Chukotka, Russian FederationMarch 31, 2001

«This damned place! What in the world attracted you here, tell me? We could be sitting right now in a sauna! You won’t even get yourself cleaned properly! Always showers and showers! It’s not humanlike. People tried with their souls, heated it, cut an ice-hole. It’s winter, damn it!»

«In my opinion, it’s spring! And it’s very beautiful here! Look at how the wind walks, and such waves! Maybe we’ll shoot down something? Who roams here now?»

«We can take a fox. But not with this weather – too much damn wind.»

The two men were walking slowly, in measuring steps, along the coast of the Chukchi Sea. One of them, an authoritative figure, listened attentively to what the other was explaining. The «boss» had an expensive-looking shotgun hanging over his shoulder. On the melting snow, rolling through the snow dunes, two vehicles slowly followed the men: a black Toyota Land Cruiser and a Russian-made all-terrain army vehicle, GAZ-34039. Three other men in dark jackets journeyed at a distance along the same course, scanning the desolate, forbidding surroundings.

The discussion turned to setting up a repeater station in this area to ensure continued telephone and internet connection for the few towns and villages. The nearest such station was in Pevek and had a service range of several hundred kilometers. This was clearly not enough for the needs of the villages, geological stations, settlements of reindeer herders and hunters, and for the increasing shipping traffic on the Northern Sea Route. Moscow was keenly interested in developing this area and openly hinted to the private sector that it would be nice to not use state funds, but «other» financial resources instead. As they say, there was little choice.

«Andrei Andreyevich, you have to understand that if we set the station here, people will be sent here as if to the pole for exile. Even animals haven’t walked these lands in years. It’s a dead place!» loudly voiced the elderly man in a fur cap pulled down over his head and hustling and waving his short arms.

«Don’t worry, Nikolai Alekseyevich, everything will be fine.» It was evident that the tall young man with a red week-old beard, a bare head and in dark glasses, and in a short, light and, apparently, very warm jacket, turned to his companion with an elaborate yet condescending politeness. «If necessary, I’ll send a good work force here. Bachelors and experienced explorers. There have to be three people per shift. It’ll be warm under the roof, with constant connection… much better than toiling on a rig or on a rocker. We’ll build a helicopter pad, warehouses, and so on… stock up on vodka. Speaking of which, how about some, Nikolai Alekseyevich? Maybe you’ll sign up for a season or two?» Along with words, white vapor came from his mouth. He walked, wistfully looking at the bleak hills, the unfriendly Chukchi Sea, and thought: What the fuck am I doing here? There wasn’t any need to choose the site myself, or to even fly out here. Everything could be done by experts. Look at me – a communications expert, idiot! Signalman-millionaire! Wherever you want, that’s where you put these damn repeaters. Come to London! No, better you come with us to Kolyma… How I’ve had it with these social responsibilities, fat bitches…

The fresh breeze from the sea touched the young man’s red hair. He was a naturally handsome persona, built like a middle-weight boxer, pale-skinned like Lord Byron and with blue eyes set deep in the shadows of his brows. His name was Andrei Andreyevich Romanov. He was forty-one years old. He was worth three billion dollars and had the broadest of ties «at the top.» These ties allowed him to engage in speculation, securities, state property, the «official» removal of competitors, and other matters, always bringing him a profit. A considerable profit.

This inexplicable pull to come and «enjoy» the beauty of the Arctic Circle came to fruition only a few weeks ago to this Russian nouveau riche, who rose from small business in the early nineties to a billion-dollar empire today. He was driving in Moscow to a Union of Industrialists meeting when he halted in a traffic jam on Tverskaya Street. No emergency or security vehicles and not even signal-flashing state limos could unglue the cars stuck like sprats in a can on both sides of the street. Out of nowhere, a dirty gypsy, some Tajik kid, ran up to the car and began to rub a sticky cloth on the tinted glass on the passenger side of the black Bentley. The boy’s eyes were completely empty and seemed like huge eyeballs. He was furiously trying to push the cloth on the glass directly in Romanov’s face, as if to wipe his nose. Out flew the bodyguards, trying to pull the boy away – however, he grabbed a door handle, so that even two heavies couldn’t do anything. He even managed to free for a few moments, pulling a stub of corn cob out of his inner jacket pocket and forcefully rubbing it onto the window. Yellow kernels scattered on the sides, and the spot of impact on the glass blurred like a sun in children’s drawings. «Ton guha,» cried the boy passionately, «Ton guha!»

Finally, the security tore the boy off the car and kicked him onto the sidewalk, where onlookers were already enjoying the little spectacle. «Ton guha! Ton guha…» the little dark-skinned kid continued screaming until one of the guards feigned a threatening movement, supposedly trying to catch the offender of the peace. The kid disappeared down an alleyway, sticking his tongue out at the heavy.

Romanov smiled and asked the driver, anxiously glancing at the clock, «Kostya, what is this „ton guha?“ Do you know, by chance?»

«Some damn black-speak probably, Andrei Andreyevich. «Give me money,» or something, I guess. I know that in Georgian, «give me money’ goes something like puli mamitschkhara… something like that, though I’m not sure… They’re everywhere!»

Being from Yaroslavl, Kostya was deeply concerned about the changing ethnic composition of the capital’s population. Meanwhile, Romanov’s heart suddenly felt pricked and he sighed with a slight groan, leaning back in his leather seat, and closing his eyes. He became deathly depressed, like once upon a time following the tragic death of his mother in a car accident. Kostya turned and looked worriedly at his boss, who just waved his hand and said, «Never mind, let’s go…» Indeed, the traffic surprisingly cleared up, as if it didn’t exist. Cars moved, picking up speed, snorting fumes at each other.

And now, in light of the occasion, and, of course, thanks to the availability of a good bottle of whiskey in the lonely room at the Intercontinental (Romanov didn’t want to drag himself back to his empty, remote home right after a meeting «at the top»), instead of spending «quality time» with his family in a cottage purchased three years ago in a small Belgian ski village, he quickly gathered his crew for a flight to Yakutsk the next day, for an «emergency trip.» He became so frightened that something very important was passing, something that will change his whole life, that he jumped out of bed in the middle of the night, awakened by a telephone call from his secretary and forced him to immediately take up this matter.

Romanov’s manic fear of becoming someone’s victim – of friends, of businessmen, of corporate raiders, or of omnipresent secret services – forced him to engage more in securities, stock markets, and resale of land, followed by the withdrawal of capital to quiet western markets, and less in the supply of hydrocarbons and metals. Having done some experiments with securities, he was convinced that they were a profitable activity. He continued to bribe public officials through whom he received ownership of national resources and treasures, but reselling securities became his main passion.

Still, at times Romanov was still attacked by unmanageable thoughts he was unable to escape from and failed to make logic of. At such moments he developed a tick. All the signs of neurosis were present. Instead of consulting doctors, he visited certain «mind expanders.» At such nagging moments, Romanov dreamt passionately that the Lord – yes, God himself – instructed him to an important task – the Mission – to receive information and so that he, Romanov, must humbly carry it from place to place. Yes, yes! He must become a messenger of God, the Chosen One. He wanted to rid himself of all this easy money that flooded his mind and life – money that prevented him from accepting and delivering the… let’s call it the stigmata. Yes, carry it from God to… someone else, just as high…

Romanov was brought back down to earth from his reflections by the cheerful voice of Nikolai Alekseyevich, who was marching through snow in long strides and moving his arms like a professional skier.

«Vodka will lure any fool to the station, Andrei Andreyevich,» joked the old man. He was a regional manager – a solid, serious man with graying temples and a huge black mustache that resembled a shoe brush. He was an adherent of a simple, soldier’s brand of humour and always knew how to support a conversation.

«Vodka-thirsty fools are exactly who we don’t need here. Either we place one station here for all three sectors, or we place three other ones – one for each sector to the south. These three other ones will cost me dimes, if not cents. Putting up IT geeks and hackers here… what do they care where they fuck their virtual babes, here or in Moscow? In the meantime, they’ll be busy enough looking after the system, so they won’t be biting their elbows from boredom.»

«That’s something! See, I’m an old man in my seventh decade, but I can’t tear away my granddaughter from that TV set, or whatever it’s called… a monitor!» Nikolai took a deep breath and continued, «All she does is babble over the Internet with her giggling girlfriends. And they live… two houses away from each other! In our town, there are just those two houses,» Nikolai laughed dryly, not letting the cigarette leave his mouth. «In the old days we ran to our friends without knocking on their door, but today’s youth doesn’t even leave their homes. Well, at least no one has to worry where they’re disappearing to!»

«Here, here. We’ll arrange in the right places the stations, and I’ll be able to locate you anywhere, brother, even from London. You won’t give me any excuses that there’s no connection…»

His boots crunching on razor-sharp ice-hummocks reaching towards the sun, Romanov sharply leaned away from a gust of wind and immediately bumped into Nikolai, almost tumbling him. Nikolai stood rock-still, eyes bulging, the cigarette hanging on his lower lip, trying to scorch his «walrus» mustache.

«Andrei Andreyevich, look! What is this mess, mother of God?»

The half-melted snow around the coastal black shapeless boulder exposed what at first sight looked like a pile of rags and paper. All of this miraculously hung on some carcass. A white carcass, treading through half-decayed tissue, upon closer inspection turned out to be the ribs of a decayed corpse, of human remains.

And here we’ve come… thought Romanov with an air of indifference. The anguish and chest pain, that was in him like a thorn for a week already, somehow left him all at once from the moment he arrived at these polar lands. He said aloud: «Well, Nikolai Andreyevich, this is where we’ll put the station… we’ll call it „At the Dead Mountaineer.“»

CHAPTER 9

34° 38’14» S58° 21» 12» WBuenos Aires, ArgentinaOctober 14, 1972

Dinner went by strangely. Dalma seemed dispirited or upset. But that did not stop her, as always, from sitting at the head of the table and reading the traditional prayer that Diego knew by heart since the age of five. Dalma received this prayer in a letter from her cousin in the United States, on Long Island, with a note that it is «the most blessed prayer that your family can ever receive.» Three weeks later, the cousin died in a car accident. Since then, Dalma has recited the prayer as a testament before each meal.

I do solemnly swear that I will always respect the property of others and be content with their lot, destined in my life by the grace of God. I will always be thankful to my masters, will never complain either of my posited pay or of extra labour, but I will always question myself: «What else can I do for my masters, for my people and for God?» We were born on this Earth not for happiness, but for trial and ordeal. And this ordeal – the burden of Fire – was given to us to cleanse our souls. And if I want to carry this Fire from one place to another, then I must always be an unselfish, sober, and truthful person. I must always be of pure soul, body, deeds, and thoughts… Be full of respect for those whom the Creator, in his ineffable wisdom, has put over me. If I endure this trial, then death will be followed by eternal life and heavenly bliss. If, however, I will not endure, I will forever burn in the flames of hell, the Devil will triumph, and Christ will grieve of me.

Little Diego sat there; his eyes fixated on the eggs. Big Diego, leaning his head to one side, was looking admiringly at Diego’s mother. Then, while the boy was working on his thrice-heated omelet with pieces of coarsely chopped red bell pepper, the father and mother quietly discussed local news. Behind the wall, the younger sister, Maria, dropped off her blanket in response to the heat.

«People in the city are losing their minds. They say there’s a maniac who kills children at night. Here, listen,» Dalma smoothed the pages of the local newspaper, the Buenos Aires Review, on the table, «…Police Chief Don Rodriguez warns the local population of La Boca district, especially parents of young children. „Do not allow children out in the evening. Or look after them yourselves…“»

«Buenos Aires is slowly turning into Mexico City,» the father nodded.

«This maniac,» continued the mother, sighing and pushing the paper aside, «beats the poor things to death just like that, and then cuts off their ears and sends them to the police station… by mail, in a parcel. It’s as if he’s saying „catch me, police! Here I am!“»

«Yes, I heard parents from some schools in the lower city are doing night patrols on the streets. But how can you keep watch of everybody?» said the father, sitting on a creaking wicker chair, sipping Mendoza.

«Son, you shouldn’t run around so late in the evening. This may be happening in La Boca and not in our hood, but better to be safe than sorry,» Dalma stroked Diego’s ruffled, curly hair.

«That’s right, Diego. Until the police track down the bastard, come home before dark! That’s an order!» grimly asserted his father.

«Don’t worry so much, ma-papa,» the boy hurriedly blurted out, pushing aside his plate, and planting a kiss on his mother’s cheek. Already fleeing to his room, he added, «It’s not like I go out alone in the evenings, I’m always with friends…»

Diego undressed, turned off the old desk lamp and climbed into bed. Outside, cicadas itched in a monotone voice, the neighbour’s window slammed shut, and a car passed by, rattling on potholes. An empty bucket suspended from the chassis characteristically tapped on each bump in the road. Cats cried out occasionally. The huge city was slowly preparing for sleep. For a while, Diego lay motionless. Behind one wall – his parents were talking quietly, behind another – Maria was turning and muttering something in her sleep. On the table among the books, the black and white sides of the gift Diego received from his father gleamed in the moonlight. Diego crawled out from under his blanket and while making a step in the dark, suddenly stumbled and nearly hit his head on the table. Stooping, he picked up his little black ball. Diego stood still in the middle of the room; his head leaned to his shoulder. At this moment, tears began to flow down his cheeks. I’ll never leave you, Kuluangwa! Never! He swung and fell on his bed, hugged the old ball tightly and with it turned towards the wall, pulling his knees to his chest.

Pressing the ball in his palms made him feel light, almost electric bites. He was already used to them. They appeared every night. Completely painless at first, they gradually became more and more insistent. However, Diego was not afraid of them. On the contrary, he waited for these sensations with unconcealed trepidation and deep joy. At this point, a hard, warm lump always appeared in his throat, making him want to cry – to weep bitterly. That’s what the boy often did, firmly wrapped in his blanket. He tore off the blackened patch off the palm of his left hand. Curled in pain that he suffered every night, he whispered, «Now, now, wait…»

Clenching his teeth, Diego pressed his right thumb on the wound. He was so twisted in pain that he grabbed the edge of the pillow with his teeth, holding back a moan. A large drop of blood emerged from the cut and spread out over the palm of his hand. Carefully, so as not to stain the linens, he put his hand to the ball. The small hand went into the black surface, like into melted wax, and the soothingly warm ball firmly accepted it into its fold. It will hold Diego’s palm until the morning, caressing and massaging it until the bleeding will stop. Now the boy was asleep. A happy smile roamed on his lips.

CHAPTER 10

To: Head of Intelligence Directorate,

General Staff of the Red Army, General I.I. Ilichev

From: Head of Second Chief Directorate,

Anglo-American Residence,

Lieutenant K.M. Litvinov

January 20, 1943

OPERATIONAL REPORT

Comrade General,

On the substance of the operation carried out to extract the secret dossier of Mr. Tesla, I inform you of the following:

FROM THE INTERROGATION RECORD

As per investigatory case No. 877, Lt. Aleksey Trofimovich Ivasenko (agent «Jack») and Lt. Pavel Magomedovich Goyev (agent «Hispanic») have been questioned.

Lt. Ivasenko and Lt. Goyev conducted a swift operation in New York with the objective of extracting Mr. Tesla’s document archive, which is in development. The operation involved a multiple-turn game, which did not lead to the intended outcome. We became aware that Abwehr agents stationed in the U.S. (Admiral Wilhelm Canaris personally oversees the operation) are actively interested in Mr. Tesla’s achievements. We have noted a high degree of activity of known German agents («Ron», «Stein», and «Arab») seeking to take possession of Mr. Tesla’s designs in the near future (in one-two weeks’ time), as part of the Vergeltungswaffe program («Weapons of Vengeance»).

Given these developments, we decided to accelerate our efforts to capture, copy, and destroy the materials before Abwehr agents manage to do so. I present the main points of the explanatory memorandum on the merits of Lt. Ivasenko as the group leader.

To: Head of Second Chief Directorate, C/A №174

Lieutenant K.M. Litvinov

Given that the object of our interest, Mr. Tesla, has lived a very secluded lifestyle in recent years, being completely devoid of all public and even friendly contacts, we made several attempts to infiltrate Mr. Tesla’s surroundings as service personnel of the New Yorker Hotel where Mr. Tesla has spent the recent years in solitude. However, we established that Mr. Tesla communicated only with the hotel staff he knew well. In their absence, his breakfast, lunch, and dinner were delivered to his room personally by the hotel manager.

On January 7 at 6:47 a.m., we successfully entered Mr. Tesla’s room (No. 3327) in the guise of stokers and chimney cleaners. In the evening of January 6, we were able to block the chimney of room no. 3327 from the roof, and through Mr. Colin, the concierge whom we bribed, we were invited as the repair team «J. Jameson & Co.» to examine and fix the chimney.

We decided in the first place to copy the archive and only then, being sure that we possess all necessary documentation, to try to persuade Mr. Tesla to cooperate. We established the location of the safe beforehand thanks to the concierge. The complexity of the lock did not present any problems.

We repeatedly asked Mr. Tesla to temporarily leave the premises, for a half hour at most, for the length of the «repairs» (so we could open the safe and copy the documents in his absence). Mr. Tesla was wearing a brand new, expensive black suit despite the early morning hours. He also wore a tie, as if going to a business meeting. However, Mr. Tesla refused to leave the room, seemingly suspecting something. He even wanted to call the hotel staff to get rid of us.

In lieu of the situation, we used force to neutralize him for a moment. Mr. Tesla showed remarkable resistance for his age. At one point during the ensuing battle, realizing the hopelessness of the situation, Mr. Tesla consumed an unknown chemical drug, a small piece of material that he pulled off from a porous black cube. He always held this object, a black dice, in his hands. (Attached is a 2x2x2 mm sample taken from the original for chemical analysis – it is sent to P.A. Sudoplatov at the NKVD7 Laboratory, 5th Section of the 9th Department of the Chief Directorate of State Security).

Mr. Tesla’s death was instantaneous. We moved his body to the sofa in the living room and folded his hands on his chest to give the impression of self-poisoning, or suicide by sleeping pills. All evidence of struggle was thoroughly destroyed, including traces of cracking the safe, fingerprints and so on.