Baker, Kage - Facts Relating To The Arrest Of Dr. Kalugin

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Facts Relating To The Arrest Of Dr. Kalugin

by Kage Baker

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First published in Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, Oct/Nov 1997

Fictionwise Contemporary

Science Fiction

The Company

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>>>_...One of the lasting enigmas in the history of the Ross settlement is that of Vasilii

Kalugin, the medical officer or _feldsher_ for the colonists. We know nothing of his origins prior

to his arrival at Ross in 1831, although it can be guessed that he had some familiarity with

botany as well as his obvious medical training ... nor is much known of the circumstances

surrounding his arrest within two months after his arrival at the settlement, and still less

concerning his apparent pardon and reinstatement ... Finally, his disappearance from the

historical record after 1835 ... presents certain problems in light of documents recently

discovered in the Sitka archives..._<<<

-- Badenov's _Russian Expansion in the North Pacific, _Harper/Fantod, 2089

* * * *

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.

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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.

So it was a calm place, Ross, and I could sit calmly in the orchard outside the stockade.

There I liked to work on my field credenza (resembling a calfskin volume of Schiller's poems), and

if a naked Indian ambled past with his fishing spear over his shoulder we'd merely wave at each

other. On the day the Courier came I had been idling there all morning, typing up my daily report

in a desultory way and watching the russet leaves drift down.

"Vasilii Vasilievich!" someone roared, and looking up I beheld Iakov Babin striding through

the trees. He was one of the settlers, a peasant who'd worked as a trapper for a time, settled

down now with an Indian wife. A tough fellow with a nasty reputation, too, and he looked the part:

stocky and muscular, with a wild flowing beard and ferocious tufted eyebrows, and a fixed glare

that would have given Ivan the Terrible pause.

"Hey, Vasilii Vasilievich!" he repeated, spurning windfall apples out of his way like so

many severed heads as he advanced. I closed my credenza.

"Good afternoon, Babin. How is your wife? Did the salve help?"

"I wouldn't know, Doc, I ain't been home yet. I just come back from the Presidio." He meant

the handful of mud huts that would one day be San Francisco. "Jumped off the boat and been five

hours on the trail." He loomed over me and fixed both thumbs in his belt. "You know an Englishman

by the name of _Currier_?"

"Currier?" I scanned my memory. "I don't believe so, no. Why?"

"Maybe he's a Yankee. I couldn't tell what the polecat was, nohow, but he comes on board

the _Polifem_ at Yerba Buena and says he's looking for Dr. Vasilii Kalugin, which is you. Says

he's from some Greek doctor. You ain't sick, are you, Doc?"

"No, certainly not!"

"No, me and the boys reckoned it was pretty unlikely you'd caught something from a whore!"

His hard eyes glinted with momentary good humor, and I was uncomfortably aware of the contempt in

which he held me. It wasn't personal: but I could read and write and wore clothes made in St.

Petersburg, which made me a trifle limp in the wrist as far as he was concerned. "So anyway, he's

on his way here now. I got to warn you, Doc, watch out for him."

"Currier," I mused aloud. Then I remembered my requisition. Of course! He must be the

_courier_ Dr. Zeus was sending with my access code. I improvised: "You know, I do have a maiden

aunt in Minsk who put me in her will. Perhaps she's died. Perhaps that's what he's here about. Not

to worry, Babin."

Iakov Dmitrivich shook his bushy head. "He ain't from Minsk, Doc. More likely from Hell! Me

and the boys about figured he's a _dybbuk_."

"Why on earth would you say that?" I frowned. Mortals who can detect the presence of

cyborgs are rare, and in any case we're all trained in a thousand little deceptions to avoid

notice.

"He ain't right somehow." Babin actually shivered. "The Indians noticed first, and they

wouldn't go near him, though he was real friendly when he come on board. But when we had to sit at

anchor a couple days, 'cause the captain took his time about leaving, well, he took on about it

like a woman! Sat in his cabin and cried! Brighted up some when we finally lifted anchor, but the

longer we were on board the crazier he acted. By the time we finally dropped anchor in Port

Rumiantsev we was damn glad to be rid of him, I tell you."

"Dear me." I was at a loss. "Well, thank you, Babin. I'll watch out for the fellow. Though

if he's bringing me a legacy I don't suppose I'll care whether he's a _dybbuk _or not, eh?"

Babin snorted at my feeble attempt at humor. "Just you watch him, Doc," he muttered, and

departed for the stockade.

I signed off on my credenza and stood, brushing away leaves. Wandering out from the

orchard, I looked up at the hills where the trail from Port Rumiantsev came down. Yes, there he

was! A pale figure striding along, really rather faster than a mortal would go. Gracious, why

hadn't he taken a horse? I squinted my eyes, focusing long-range.

He looked pale because he was wearing a suit of fawn linen, absurd at this season of the

year, and tall buff suede boots. The whole cut of his clothing was indeed English; though he had

somehow acquired one of our Russian conical fur hats and wore it jauntily on the back of his head.

He was bounding down the trail with a traveling-bag slung over his shoulder, looking all about him

with an expression of such fascinated delight one felt certain he was about to miss a step and

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