Lone Cultivator In Another World

Monday morning, Michael patiently repeated his routine of cooking, eating, washing and dressing up, after which he received the obligatory 2 glory points for "taking care of himself". While chewing an apple, he passed the security detail, noticeably strengthened over the holidays, and headed towards the school building where Jones's office was.

He stood in front of the man's door for a minute, trying to figure out Graves's trick of noticing others before they notice him. Unlike with the principal, Michael could hear everything that happened behind the door: typing on a keyboard, a clock ticking, a slight cough Jones allowed himself when he thought no one was listening.

Michael gently asked for permission with a knock and allowed himself in.

"Michael! Please, sit. Would you like some tea? Biscuits? I promised," greeted Jones.

"I had a hearty breakfast, but I'll sample something, sir," smiled the boy.

Jones served him a cup, set the kettle and brought out the sweets. There were so many, he had to use three plates to fill them all up.

"Help yourself then. We have a lot to talk about. I must start with an apology, I suppose," Jones waved away at Michael's raised eyebrow, "I promised you could watch but it didn't fit the principal's plans."

"I'm sorry I behaved inappropriately when I came to ask for your help," echoed Michael, "I even threatened you."

"Forgotten," grinned Jones and sipped his tea.

"Who was it on the phone, sir?"

"Wait, wait. Let me tell you the story from the beginning. I'm actually a good storyteller."

"All right," blurted Michael after some hesitation.

"Do you know how EIS was founded? The role your country played?"

"Sure. After president Putin was reelected for the second term in 2004, he wanted to reach out to the West in some grand gesture…"

"Myshkin."

"Beg your pardon?"

"President Myshkin, Michael. Don't tell me you confused your nation's leader with someone else."

Again. One more thing that led Michael to believe this world wasn't his old world after all.

"Hmm," he coughed, "Right. He proposed building a school for gifted children from all around the world. Instead of giving it a number, words like 'experimental' and 'international' were used. Russia provided a large chunk of the funding and western countries didn't stay idle for long."

"Yes. Most people grab the olive branch when it's handed to them," nodded Jones.

The teacher turned away and stared out of the window at the school grounds. The windows were overlooking a patch of grass that would be perfect for a picnic, with a large branchy tree enveloping it with shade. There, two upperclassmen cuddled, a boy and a girl, whispering about things that interested only them.

"I still can't believe EIS turned out all right after so many countries tried to pull fast ones over each other. Russia, in case you didn't know, is one of the most corrupt countries in the world. When the word got out such a school would be built, everyone wanted to get in on the ground floor. The principal and department Heads are mostly neutral, but then you see people like Kamyshov and you wonder if EIS can reach its objectives while they are still here."

"Objectives, sir?"

"I'm not talking about world peace. Just better international relations. Friendship between future world leaders. Uniting against poverty, hunger, lack of education."

Michael frowned. Jones spoke of goals that could be reached in theory, but in his past life, by year 2028 the world was largely the same.

EIS started out as a school popular among Russian children because of targeted political propaganda. European countries and the US reacted in the same manner, but with restraint – that was why there were twice as many Russian students as from any other country.

After a while, the rich and powerful acknowledged the unusual school and hurried to ensure a more promising future for their children. Requirements for enrollment were high but money opened many doors and created them where there were none. The school also screened the rich kids harshly, allowing them some concessions but weeding out the average and ungifted all the same. Like that, the children were divided into talented and privileged ones.

"The principal is a retired intelligence agent; did you know that?" Jones threw out a curve ball to return Michael's attention to their dialogue.

"Ah! That explains why there's so little information on him on the Internet. But wait, why would countries contending for influence inside the school appoint an agent as the principal?"

Jones smiled, appreciating Michael's attentiveness, "That's how good Graves is. He never became a target for any of the countries he worked for or against. I don't know much, to be honest, but I imagined he tried to reach compromises where he could."

"Compromises in intelligence work?"

"Cut me some slack, kid. I don't have all the answers," complained Jones, "Where was I? Right, Graves and the department Heads are neutral, but the process was so chaotic that Kamyshov and a couple of others slipped through the cracks. See, Kamyshov was a professor in Soviet times, but decided to take the path of least resistance in the nineties. He used his connections to obtain easy diplomas for his students, children of influential people. He provided them with everything from papers to booze and women. And then – this is key – he took photos and used them as leverage."

"He was a blackmailer?" interrupted Michael incredulously.

"According to Graves, still is. There was enough material in Kamyshov's hands to secure a teaching spot here at EIS and settle down. That is, until his son, Marco Reed became old enough to study here."

"Marco is his what?" yelled Michael. That just could not be true. He knew for sure that Kamyshov didn't have a family. When Michael was in his thirties, he got news of Kamyshov's untimely end via heart attack. Oh, the man looked 60, but he only turned 50 when Michael graduated. 'Must be all that alcohol and substances he used in the nineties, then,' he thought. At the time of his funeral, Kamyshov had no family and his money all went to charity.

Another nail in the coffin of Michael's time travel theory. Perhaps it was time to accept that he had traveled to another world, very similar to his own but merely that. What other changes could there be? So far, nothing among Michael's closest environment was too different from what it was before. However, the smallest detail could play a big role – his father's health, his old friend Pavel's family circ.u.mstances or, God forbid, Alice's life.

"Michael?" wondered Jones, "Is that really so shocking?"

"Ah?" the boy came back to his senses, "Maybe not, sir. It's not like I didn't expect something along these lines."

"Problem was, Marco's talents didn't warrant him a spot in the quota. Apoll, a long-time supporter of Kamyshov, helped him procure the written test answers and wrote the report for Marco. Together, they pushed me to promote the kid, but then their luck changed. Because you appeared," Jones added with a smirk.

"So Apoll switched the lists of accepted students, made the call to your residence and hoped you would just quietly slip away. I really must thank you for your assertiveness, kid."

"So it was that guy," Michael's face darkened. His fury from a few days ago had dissipated, but Jones saw his discontent plain as day.

"Yes," he replied drolly, "I'd prefer it if you didn't take a fork to his scrotum like you were itching to before, my friend."

Michael displayed a small shy smile before recalling the bigger problem, "And what of Kamyshov? Is he dealt with now?"

"He is… still here," Jones squirmed, "Graves only managed to squeeze him out of some extra blackmail material. I'm afraid that asshole still has enough pull to stay and teach here. Marco will have to stay for the time being as well."

"So, I've made an enemy then?"

"More like, you stumbled upon one. Look, your tea is getting cold."

The two men, one of them occupying a child's body, refilled their cups with the hot beverage and munched on the sweets. Jones observed Michael as the boy considered his new predicament. Surprisingly, he showed no fear, only irritation, as if he was forced to deal with a total nuisance.

"Why me? Why did Kamyshov choose me for the one to replace? There must have been easier candidates."

Jones processed the question and answered what he thought Michael really wanted to ask, "You mean, were you the last on our list? No, you were one of the strongest candidates."

"Then, why?"

"Hmm… Perhaps because both you and Marco chose the History department for your second exam. With you gone, Kamyshov could pressure me into filling that one-person quota with Marco."

"So, we will never know what exactly their plan looked like. For example, their uncultured behavior during the second exam, was that an act?"

"Their ostentatious dissatisfaction with your speech," Jones echoed.

"How red Kamyshov got when I spoke," Michael grinned.

"No," Jones grinned back, "That was real. It was his blood pressure climbing sky-high and his pride taking a dive."