“Well, we got this chronomuddler,” Artem said reluctantly. Oxana became aroused. “Excuse me… who?” Artem looked somewhat uncomfortable. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This trespasser, I meant to say. A former lab assistant from an R&D outfit. He assembled his unit at home from stolen parts. And, he is convinced that all problems of contemporary Russia stem from the Mongol oppression of Old Rus. So… last week he departed for the Kalka River, to meet the Mongol tumens with withering gunfire,” Artem concluded somewhat scornfully. He was not lacking the sense of humor after all. “How did you know that?” “He left a note.” “But what if he didn’t?” Oxana’s voice was anxious. Artem shrugged again. “Somebody would miss him sooner or later.” “What do you mean, later?!!” The young man scratched his eyebrow, annoyed. “Sorry, I just said it wrong. It cannot be too late in our business.” He was about to say something else, when a tin-plated door in the end of the hallway swung open, and someone clanged through onto the cracked, squeaky floorboards. The man was dressed in an iron mail shirt reaching down to his knees, his head crowned with a flattish helmet reminiscent of a skullcap. In his hand the warrior was holding an ordinary spade. With a rustle and a clink, he strolled by, giving his colleague a regal nod. “Who is this?” Spellbound, the reporter followed the imposing stranger with her eyes. “One of our workers.” “Why does he have that spade?” “It’s a long story,” Artem replied warily. “By the way, he’s also bound for the Kalka River.” “You mean… we’re going to see him there?” “No,” Artem said. “You and I are going to June 16, 1224, and he’s headed for May 31, 1223.” “I just don’t understand anything, then!” Oxana admitted. “When was the Battle of the Kalka River?” “Well… Some annals refer to the first date, others to the second. It all depends upon whatever historic source the trespasser used.” “That’s amazing!” she could barely say, looking around. The hallway was empty again; the armored employee had disappeared around a bend. “You mean to say, the bad guy has gone into the wrong past?” Her imagination obligingly displayed a bold headline: Before You Try to Fix History, Fix Your F on History! The next instant, Oxana appreciated the splendid meaning of the mysterious word she had not understood at first. “But of course!” she cried in delight. “A chronomuddler! Got his chronology all mixed up, correct?” “Well… yes, to a certain extent.” “Is that your official operational term?” “Why don’t we step into my office for a minute,” Artem suggested after some hesitation. “Rather than hanging out in the hallway, you know…” * * * Besides a desk and a cabinet, the tiny office accommodated a safe and a refrigerator with hardly any room left. “How come you’re so crowded in here?” Oxana blurted out. “Just the way it is,” Artem replied philosophically, squeezing through to the desk. “Do they provide enough funding, at least?” “We get paid on time, and thank goodness for that.” “I just don’t understand it!” Oxana said earnestly. “How can you work in these conditions? It’s scary even to think that the very outcome of the Battle of the Kalka depends upon you guys! I don’t get it! And all this weird silence of the media—” She was going to add more when he pulled a drawer and took out something resembling her Dictaphone scaled about three times up. “Is this the thing?” the girl asked, peering. “Yep… it is,” Artem replied meditatively. Frowning, he began to press tiny buttons on the unit. “The very thing. Minichron, Model One. Here…” he drawled with satisfaction, placing the gadget inside a shoulder bag sitting on the chair. “I guess we’re ready to go.” “What! Just the two of us?” Oxana asked anxiously. “Why, what else did you expect?” “I thought you had a SWAT team—” “Too much credit,” he muttered, stuffing a checkered blanket into a different compartment of the bag. “But he has a machine-gun!” “I was kidding,” Artem said, zipping up the bag. “He doesn’t. He just wants to warn Prince Mstislav the Bold against ever splitting the Rus forces.” “Wait!” Oxana recalled the clanging warrior. “Are we going like this? What about the gear, outfits?” Artem looked at her contemplatively. Then he turned towards the refrigerator and not the safe as one would expect. “Right on!” he encouraged her and opened the door. “What do you prefer to drink?” For the life of her, Oxana couldn’t grasp what was going on. “Well… in a picnic setting, I mean,” Artem explained, answering her bewildered gaze. “I got beer, but I’d rather recommend dry red wine with cheese and greens. Or would you like something stronger?” * * * “Is this the Kievan Rus, then?” Oxana asked, gawking around. An ordinary country landscape surrounded them. A river snaked between low hills. There were neither shingled roofs nor latticed power-line towers in sight. On the other hand, gingerbread mansions and wooden palisades of the Old Rus were nowhere to be seen, either. “O Rus! Back of the knoll art thou,” Artem replied with a quote, also looking around for something. “I see a perfect spot! That’s where we’ll sit. A great overlook, but the main thing we’ll be in plain view as well.” He adjusted the stuffed bag and sauntered toward a hillock. Oxana followed. “But… what if the Mongol horsemen show up?” she asked anxiously. “You think if the Rus horsemen show up it would be any better?” “But still—!” Artem looked back. “Whoever shows up, just clap your hands,” he suggested. “As loud as you can. Or scream.” “And that would scare them away?” “No. This Minichron is tuned to sound. It would switch off, and we’d bounce right back to our starting point. That is, my office.” They reached the top of the hill. Artem unzipped the bag, took out and spread the checkered blanket, then began to unload the cheese, greens, flatbreads, and the two bottles of wine. “Hey, look!” Oxana cried. Luckily, she did it softly enough. Artem straightened up and looked in the direction she pointed. At the edge of the woods they caught a glimpse of a human figure – once, then again. The stranger was dressed in blue shorts and a white T-shirt. “Is that him?” “No,” Artem said after a pause. “That’s me. Never mind, I come here often enough.” Oxana stared but the distance was too great and she couldn’t make out the face. “Can I come closer?” “There’s only one Minichron for the two of us,” Artem said. “You move about fifteen paces away, and find
