Julius sent that little revelation to the Home Office, who instantly made the file classified whilst they investigated what Stalin might have been up to. They also upped Julius' clearance level. Her Majesty’s Government always liked a sharp pair of eyes. So long as those eyes were on their side. The British Government had a difficult relationship with Cambridge scholars, especially in all matters pertaining to Russia. However, they had vetted Julius to within an inch of his life and found nothing untoward, so now he got to rummage around lots of interesting case files.
Which was just as well, because here he was leafing through Russian military documents. In and of themselves, they were pretty boring; what the British Government had was mostly redacted, or at least that which Julius was allowed to read. His clearance level only went so far. Some documents the cold war spies had smuggled out of Russia were incendiary, others were plebeian. But plebeian was what Julius needed. So many times, massive secrets were discovered behind mundane facts and figures. Now Julius thought about what he had unearthed as the cold wind whipped off the Cambridge fens.
The old woman’s grandfather-in-law was called Dimitri Guskov. He had indeed been stationed in Moscow, and then for a brief stint was registered as being at the Ipatiev House, Yekaterinburg. There were no details of his duties, but what else was there to do there in 1918, other than guard the soon to be assassinated imperial family?
Dimitri then married and had a son. His son moved to Poland and went on to have two sons himself, Filip and Jan. Jan married Zofia and they bought a flat in Warsaw. This was Charlie’s babushka. This was as far as Julius had got. Zofia’s brother-in-law was harder to find. Julius had unearthed a wedding announcement and a photo of Jan and Zofia, but there was no mention of Filip, or even that Jan had a brother. Could this indicate a death? Maybe a rift?
Julius had begun to track the brother down. So far he hadn't found a death certificate, but he also hadn't found any other details. Tomorrow he would investigate the emigration records.
#5 Neith – Alpha Earth
Great Ra! Why did I drink last night? A Q hangover was nothing like a regular one. Drinking after a Q Step was always tricky, and normally I avoided it, but I'd been so annoyed at my stupidity that I was in the mood to live it up. Adding alcohol to a brain that had only just processed a shift in quantum states was particularly foolhardy.
Clio had suggested we go let our hair down at one of the chess clubs, but the last time I was there everyone had got really cross with me. In fairness, there are some tables you probably shouldn't dance on. So we'd gone to Pygs instead. Pygs was a place favoured by the underbelly of society, the roughnecks and rule breakers, the quantum librarians and curators. Basically, it was where I was most at home. But dear Anubis, this morning's headache was severe and at one point I found myself conversing in twelfth-century Cantonese. I felt shivery and the light was killing my eyes.
Holding onto my coffee cup for dear life, I pulled my coat closer, put on my sunglasses and slid into the briefing room. I was instantly met with a barrage of hoots and cat-calls. Yeah, like none of them had ever suffered a little step death.
Gingerly, I removed my sunnies and waved to everyone, acknowledging the jeers. We were nothing if not a team, and I know I’d be hooting with laughter just as loudly if any of them arrived at a meeting so clearly suffering. Some people show their love with flowers and chocolates, we sent punches and piss takes. I slumped down into a chair next to Ramin.
‘When did you get back?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘And you went for a drink straight away? Man, do you even have a brain?’
I groaned. ‘Not currently. Currently I have a brass band rioting in my head. I assume that the polar bear over there’s a hallucination?’
Ramin didn't bother looking where I was pointing. If there had been a polar bear here in Egypt, it would be attracting a little more attention than just mine.
I tried to focus on my fingers and watched as the fish leapt from nail to nail. At least I knew these weren’t a fiction of my imagination. Last night in the bar, Clio had been painting my nails. She was a genius at the micro subroutines embedded in the varnish; right now, little goldfish were launching out of blue green polish, surrounded by little lily pads, and then splashing into the water of the next nail. She even had the little hologram creating ripples and splashes in the varnish. Like I said, an artist. Quantum curators, or steppers, as we tended to call ourselves, couldn’t have tattoos for obvious reasons, so instead we played with holograms that could be removed and deactivated as we stepped across into the historically-sensitive time period.
Painting holograms also calmed her down. When we’d walked into the bar, Tyler started jeering at me for having to pretend to be the Lady of the Lake. What can I say? Tyler’s a camel’s arse, always has been, always will be. Not worth the spit. But if Clio has an Achilles heel, it’s those she cares for.
One time in basic training, she was unhappy with how a fellow student had referred to Clio’s favourite teacher. The student in question was a huge bloke, well over six foot. Clio knocked him out cold. The only reason she wasn’t put on remand was because he categorically refused to acknowledge she had decked him. For the next few weeks that teacher received loads of gifts from
