Facts Relating to the Arrest of Dr. Kalugin полностью

Oh, dear, that old tale. I’d prefer not to discuss that, if you don’t mind. No, really, you’d have nightmares. No? Well, you’re an exceptional Immortal, I must say, if you don’t. I’m sure the rest of us do. Very well then; the night and the storm will provide atmosphere, and we can’t go anywhere until dawn anyway. Shall I tell you what really happened, that night in 1831? Have another glass of tea and poke up the fire. No sneering now, please. This is a true story. Unfortunately.

I was working for two Companies at once, you see. It so happened that my job with Dr. Zeus Inc. required me to assume a mortal identity and join the Russian-American Company, posing as a medico sent out to take care of the settlers in the Californian colony. The real job involved some clandestine salvage operations not far offshore, but they don’t enter into this story.

I’d worked hard to prepare a mortal identity, too, I mean besides graying my hair. I had all manner of anecdotes about having been a surgeon in the Imperial Navy and patched up battle wounds. I thought that’s what they’d need in California: someone to stitch up grizzly bear bites and slashes from knife brawls. But no sooner had I arrived in Sitka than I was summoned to Baron Von Wrangel’s office and informed that I was to be a botanist, if you please! Oh, and a surgeon, too, but when I wasn’t amputating limbs I was to spend my every spare moment collecting any local plants with curative powers, interviewing the natives if necessary.

Difficult man, Baron Von Wrangel. A man of science, to be sure, and limitless enthusiasm for exploration and study; but you wouldn’t want to work for him. And I wasn’t programmed for botany, you see! I’m scarcely able to tell a beet from a cabbage. I’ve been a Marine Operations Specialist for six centuries now.

Well, before I left Sitka I transmitted a requisition to the Company—our Company—for an access code on the healing plants of the Nova Albion region. I’d just received a confirmation on my request when the Buldakov weighed anchor and left Alaska, so off I went to California in fond hopes the access code would catch up with me there.

You’ve heard of the Ross colony, the Russian outpost north of San Francisco? It was supposed to grow produce to support Russia’s Alaskan colonies and turn a tidy profit for the Russian-American Company into the bargain. It lost money, as a matter of fact; but what a charming failure it was! On a headland above the blue Pacific, with beautiful golden mountains sloping up behind it and great dark groves of red pine trees along the skyline, and such a blue sky! Compared to Okhotsk it was a fairytale of eternal summer.

The stockade there was faced with the biggest planks I’d ever seen, enormous those red trees were, but the gates stood open most of the time. Why? Because there was no danger from the local savages. Despite my use of the term they were no fools, politically or otherwise, and they knew that our presence there protected them from the depredations of the Spanish. Therefore, the local chieftains signed a treaty with us; and you may say what you like about my countrymen, but as far as I know the Russians are the only nation ever to keep a treaty with Native Americans.