part one

INCEPTION

“Men believe most what they least understand.”

Montaigne

CHAPTER FOUR

Doctor Dimitri Sergeyevich Andronnikov from the Ministry of Health had received the call at his home the previous evening. He snatched up the receiver before the clanging bell might wake his wife upstairs in their bedroom, already deep in a vodka-induced sleep. He’d taken to late night reading in his study, his large body pressed comfortably into his leather armchair, with the trivial fiction of American Science Fiction writers. These stories were far removed from his reality, giving him needed reprieve from his daily existence. At only forty-three years old, he was deathly tired.

His mind snapped back from outer space as he brought the receiver to his ear. Background giggles cut through the ever-present line static before the monotone voice of Gustov Yegorevich bored into his brain.

“Dimitri Sergeyevich, there’s an urgent matter for you to attend to first thing tomorrow morning.”

Gustov Yegorevich Borovsky never used common courtesies like salutations, but started right in with whatever was on his mind. The giggles rose in the background as he continued.

“It seems a bout of mass hysteria may be forming in a village some 200 kilometers north. Since airborne disease is your specialty, the Bureau chief thought it best for you to investigate. A folder will be on your desk at 6 AM.”

“What’s this all—”

Gustov Yegorevich ended conversations as he started them: abruptly. Before the phone on the other end clicked off, a burst of guffaws squawked from Dimitri’s earpiece. Dimitri replaced the receiver and stared down at the sci-fi book in his lap. Outer space wasn’t going to ease his mind now. With a sigh, he closed the book and trudged up to bed.

The black folder sat on the passenger seat, a secret document, an early-morning joke for Dimitri. Nothing inside had given a hint of what to expect upon his arrival. Even more confusing was the portable ultrasound device, now in his trunk, which had waited for him beneath the black folder.

He suspected he was on another time-wasting journey so the petty bureaucrats in his office could get another good laugh at his expense. These puerile jokes appeared to be all they needed to maintain their paltry existence until the weekend when, like his wife, they’d get falling down drunk. But she hardly ever waited until the weekend.

They all hated him because he was a dreamer. He hated himself because he was a dreamer who never did anything to make his dreams come true. His desires evaded him over the years. A courageous move to Moscow or Leningrad to join a university team exploring the cutting edge of medicine was nothing but a mirage lost in the malaise of his day to day life. Trying to acquire this knowledge piecemeal over the Internet was a fool’s errand. And, apparently, everyone else had caught on to this fact long before he did. The worst part of all the abuse he put up with was that he felt he deserved it.

He was so lost in miserable reverie he nearly missed the tiny sign for the village. With a sudden jerk of the wheel, he veered off the two-lane highway onto the old country road, skidding into a fishtail, invigorating every artery with fresh pounding blood. His twenty-year-old Volga didn’t mind hilly roads except when they’d break away into crumbly bits of asphalt, ash, and rock with an obstacle course of pot holes and water-sliced ruts. Unfortunately, this was the road he was now on.

The village center Dimitri rolled into appeared so much like a thousand others. Maybe a couple thousand people lived and worked here, growing and raising who-knows-what but, happy and content in their daily existence, so unlike himself. Few people were about, probably because they were out doing legitimate work in fields or shops. He stopped his Volga in front of the church in the town square and lumbered out. Immediately, a harried man in a worn suit much like his own clamored down the steps toward Dimitri. He was talking before he was within earshot.

“You from the Ministry of Health? I’m Peter Olegovich Komarov, the town mayor. Thank you for coming out. I called many times, but no one seemed to take our problem seriously. I’m happy you have chosen to investigate.”

Dimitri offered his hand to the man, who nervously rubbed his own palms against his tattered jacket before sliding his still damp hand into Dimitri’s grasp. Dimitri unconsciously wiped his hands on his pant legs when the man released his limp grip.

“Maybe you should tell me what the problem seems to be. My superiors weren’t specific in that regard.”

The man stared with cocked head as if Dimitri should be explaining to him about the peculiar ails of the village. He blinked a few times, then turned on his heels.

“Please, come with me.” He lumbered back up the steps to the church. Dimitri followed him inside the old musty building where electric light was obviously a second thought; it seemed the first lightbulbs ever invented were still in use there. More light glowed from the arched stained-glass windows to either side than from the string of dim shadeless bulbs hanging from wires down the center aisle.

The modest church was empty save for a priest and a dozen shabbily-dressed people grouped together in the front pews before the altar. Six were somber middle aged women, six were demure young girls. Dimitri thought about the rubber gloves and medical kit he had left in the car.

The mayor arced his hand toward the girls hunched together in the first pew as if this sweeping movement explained everything. Dimitri squinted at the assembled girls, his eyebrows drifting up.

“What seems to be the problem? Are the girls ill?”

“Are they ill?” The man’s face twisted with incredulity. “Stand up, girls.”

As a unit, they rose to their feet, shy eyes glued to the floor. The mayor stared at Dimitri, waiting for some kind of pronouncement.

“What?” Dimitri said.

“Their stomachs. See their stomachs?”

Dimitri moved closer. Yes, their stomachs were bulging somewhat. He peered into their adolescent faces, maybe twelve or thirteen years old. He pushed from his mind the first thought that jumped in, and instead said, “Do they all eat from the same table?”

The mayor, the priest and all the mothers gawked at him. The girls flicked their eyes from the floor to stare at him from beneath lowered brows. Sweat formed on Dimitri’s upper lip.

“You are from the Health Ministry? Are you a doctor?” the mayor asked again.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Dimitri stuttered.

“Do your eyes fail you? Do you not see what we see? These girls are pregnant.”

Dimitri pursed his lips as he looked over the innocent faces. This is a problem for the priest, not him, he thought, as his eyes came to rest on the mayor’s troubled face.

“I can understand the problem, sir, but what has this to do with the Health Ministry?”

Astounded, the mayor stuttered. “Didn’t those imbeciles tell you anything?” He pointed at the girls. “They’re virgins, every one!”

This was a declaration Dimitri hadn’t expected. In fact, by what authority could the mayor make such a statement? A sardonic laugh escaped him.

“Sir, do you mean to say all these girls are virgins, yet are pregnant?”

“Precisely what I’m saying. We’ve only found out this very week.”

A mother in the pew behind her daughter spoke up. “Our daughters are nearly all the girls of this village who are in their twelfth or thirteenth year.”

Another mother stood. “We didn’t know about each other, but when we sought help at church, Father Sergei convinced us to confide in one another.”

The first mother approached Dimitri, hands clasped as if about to pray. “At first, there were only two, then three and now six. Three more girls of this age live in our village.” The woman stopped before him, looking up with pleading eyes. “We are afraid, doctor.”

Dimitri skimmed all those eyes staring at him, all pleading, like the woman standing before him.

“I will have to confirm your assertions, you understand.” He was reticent to tell them this wasn’t his area of expertise. More than a few years had passed since he practiced general medicine. As he remembered the ultrasound machine in his trunk, he felt confident this situation would be cleared up in an afternoon.

Two hours later, Dimitri sat in the priest’s austere quarters on the humble bed he had used as an examination table, with his head in his hands. His original thought had been that an elaborate jest was being played upon him by his comrades, for their unconcealed laughter over the phone was testament to such a childish act. But now, his preliminary observations precluded the possibility of such a prank.

How could something as seemingly simple and innocuous as a teen pregnancy become so complicated? This happened every day in villages around the world. Although a persistent seed had been known to work its way inside without actual penetration, this scenario was most rare. But every one of these girls did still appear to be a virgin. This placed the odds of such an event happening in the same village in the astronomical range, even the impossibility range. Surely some form of artificial insemination had to be involved.

All Dimitri’s rational mind allowed him to believe was that a nefarious scheme was at hand implicating complicity among all the parties.

He stood, rubbed the life back into his face, pulled taut his suit coat, and opened the door to all the anxious faces.

“The girls must return with me to the clinic for further tests,” he stated.

***

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