Nine Layers of Sky (18 page)

Three

KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

Manas was heading toward the park. The streets were empty, but Ilya could see lights in the windows of the apartment blocks, catch snatches of meal-time conversation. He had spent many evenings like this, wandering the
prospekts
of St. Petersburg and Moscow, looking enviously in on the warm world of ordinary people. But this time he had a room of his own to which to return, and Elena instead of a syringe. The thought of sleeping once more in the same room glowed within him like lamplight.

Manas had disappeared into the trees. Ilya paused and listened, then caught the sound of uncertain footsteps. After a few minutes they stopped. Ilya peered into the dusk. Surely that was a statue, standing so still at the edge of the trees? But then the statue moved. Ilya saw a man in a business suit and black-and-white
alkapak
hat. He was middle-aged, unremarkable.

“Did you find him?” he heard the stranger say in Russian.

“Yes?”

“And then?”

“He seemed to believe me. He claims not to have it.”

“Is he lying?”

“I do not know.”

“Can’t you tell? I thought you said you would be able to detect this thing if he had it.”

“Well, I did not.” Manas’ voice tilted into arrogance. “If it is here, it has not spoken to me. But take my word for it—he is Russian, a simple sort, not good at dissembling.”

“
Panimyu,
I understand. But we should not talk here. We need a place where our voices will be masked.”

“What about your office?” Manas asked.

“Don’t be naïve. You know it is bugged, like all government buildings.”

Ilya saw Manas nod, then the two men turned away and began walking swiftly across the park. Neither said anything more. He followed them until they reached a small street lined with bars and restaurants, evidently the cheerful equivalent of Moscow’s Arbat. Manas and the stranger headed into the nearest bar. Cautiously, Ilya followed.

The bar was crowded and noisy, filled with youngsters and not the kind of place that Ilya would normally have sought out. He had to stop himself from performing the search-and-locate that had, during the time of his addiction, become second nature. He had come forth from the twentieth century with two new skills: a familiarity with modern weapons and the ability to recognize a dealer at twenty paces. He made his way to the end of the bar, ordered a vodka, then slid into a cubicle. From there, he could see Manas and the stranger, who sat with their backs to him. He took a fiery sip and settled back to listen.

“—sure that we have not been followed?” the stranger was saying. Manas shrugged.

“Very likely.” He glanced around the bar. Ilya shrank farther into the cubicle. “So I suggest we keep the conversation to matters of more common knowledge for now.
Tak.
You had questions for me?”

“Of the nature of the place where you and this man Kovalin come from. Does it have a name?” the stranger asked.

“Byelovodye. The land of white waters. Its gates were supposed to lie somewhere in the Altai, not so far from here. Did you know that?”

“Yes. It’s like Shambhala. I thought it was a fairy tale.”

“It is. So am I. So is our heroic Russian friend.” Manas’ voice was edged with contempt. He added, “Actually, I’m an epic.”

Ilya smiled to himself as Manas went on, “It is a place that has a more fluid and flexible relationship with our dreams, with our stories and legends, than this world will ever possess. Entities come from it—the
rusalki,
for instance. Ideologies change it. There is reason to believe that at the demise of the Soviet experiment, its nature substantially altered—indeed, it may be that this alteration came first, and was the cause of that demise. It is a kind of parallel dimension that affects, and is affected by, our own ideas.”

“Are you saying that it is some kind of imaginary world?” the stranger asked. He sounded incredulous; Ilya could not blame him.

Or some kind of collective unconscious?
Ilya wondered. A few weeks with that
Gulag
psychiatrist all those years ago hadn’t gone entirely amiss.

“No, it is quite real. But it works according to different laws. Memory has a slightly different function there, for example.”

“Do many people live there?”

“Folk have wandered in or been taken there by the
rusalki,
over the centuries. There have been ways through before—gates opened by ancient, unknown technology—and it seems that sometimes there are little natural rifts. But in the 1920’s—not long after the Revolution—Byelovodye was colonized. A man called Tsilibayev found a way to replicate the equipment that can create a gate. We don’t know where he found the means—he kept his sources very close to his chest. What is clear is that he didn’t fully understand the technology he was trying to copy and his equipment was never very stable, but it worked nonetheless. The early Bolshevik authorities sent groups of people through, in case Russia fell. It was a top-secret project, a way of preserving national identity if all else failed. Felix Dzerzhinsky, the old monster, put a stop to all that—thought it was counterrevolutionary, or some such nonsense. The Cheka had the laboratory destroyed. But Tsilibayev’s technology is still being used within Byelovodye, by those who understand even less than he.”

The room seemed to echo with guilt. Ilya thought back eighty years, remembering a bilious green office and the look on the Cheka operative’s face. He remembered the expressionless visages of the men waiting for him by the railway track, to lead him to the next train east and Siberia. These men were like beads in a black rosary, another link in a chain of destruction.

“Does
anyone
fully understand it?” said the stranger. “Do you?”

“I am no scientist, any more than you are. But I know that this device can be
used.
That is all I need to know. It is a key. It is not even necessary to be near a gate—the thing can open rifts in the air itself—but that is too dangerous.”

“How so?”

“You might not find yourself on solid ground, or find yourself in the middle of a sea. Byelovodye is not a geographical replication of Russia, you see. The device must be used responsibly.”

“But can anyone use it?”

“Certain folk can activate it by their thoughts alone. Otherwise it requires complex equipment and, as Tsilibayev discovered, that is not always stable. But don’t worry—I’m here, and I’m on your side.”

Ilya wondered whether the stranger could hear the slyness in Manas’ voice.
Certain folk.
Did Manas mean all the
bogatyri,
or something else? It made him wonder anew about the coil, about his own relationship to it, and the still small voice in his head.

“Can you activate it?” the stranger asked. “Do you possess that ability?”

“I can do many things,” Manas said, and laughed.

He isn’t going to tell him,
Ilya thought. But did that mean that Manas had the power, or not?

“What happened to the colony?”

“It survived, and grew. People had families, married some of the descendants of the folk who had drifted in over the years. They established their own state. Ideas from the outside world—what we are pleased to call the real world—slipped through the barrier, affecting what happens in Byelovodye and vice versa. I am talking about
all
ideas, by the way—all dreams—Central Asian as well as Russian, Islamic as well as Christian. This is not some fantasy land, some bucolic Russian idyll. Dreams of technology and the future are as powerful as any fairy story ever was. Byelovodye is now a modern socialist state. Over time, the colonists decided that they wanted nothing more to do with the ‘real’ Russia. They are as insular and introspective, as repressive and repressed, as the Soviet Union ever was.” Manas’ voice was thick with hate.

To whom was Manas lying? Ilya wondered. The Kyrgyz hero seemed to know much more than he had told Ilya, which was hardly a surprise.

The stranger said, “And it is the key to the gates between these worlds that Kovalin and his kind are now seeking?”

“It is
a
key, yes. One of the few remaining pieces of the old technology.”

“And the gates themselves? Where are they?”

“Here, too, there are few that remain. One lies in Samarkand itself and is very old. It’s been lost for centuries—my allies have only recently discovered it. But there is another, not far from here—a newer opening. It lies at the far end of Lake Issy Kul, in an abandoned military facility. I have arranged to meet the
akyn
there, my poet, tomorrow at sunset. He says he has valuable information for me.”

“What kind of information?”

“I do not know.” Manas rose. “I will keep you informed.”

“Do so. If an advantage can be gained for Kyrgyzia, you know I will want to hear of it.”

“Of course. You are a politician, after all.”

Ilya waited until they left, straining to hear their conversation as they went out onto the street. But Manas and the stranger remained silent, with only their footsteps echoing along the wet road. Ilya threaded his way through the bar, ignoring the impulse to stay, to drink, to score. Elena was waiting for him.

Four

KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

To Elena’s great relief, it was not long before Ilya returned.

“Ilya? Something’s happened.”

He sat down on the bed beside her and listened with attention as she described the garden, and the woman within it.

“She spoke of a breach?” Ilya said. “Do you know what she meant?”

“I don’t know, but I can guess. A breach between their world and ours?”

“Perhaps. But what could have caused it?” There was a new unease in his face. He went on, “What else did she say?”

“She asked me if I was using a distorter coil.”

“A what?” But they both looked toward Elena’s handbag.

“She said something about the Pergama military. Have you ever heard of a place called Pergama?”

“It sounds Greek.”

“She’d heard of Russia and Kyrgyzstan. She knew

where they were. It must be a parallel world, Ilya. An alternative.”

Briefly, Ilya told her of what he had overheard.

“So I was right. What a wonderful thing, Ilya!”

He nodded, slowly. He did not seem as excited as she was by the news.

“Don’t you agree?” She touched his hand. “Ilya, this is what I’ve been looking for all these years. Another chance for us, for Russia. A different future.”

He grimaced. “From what the stranger said, they seem to be making the same old mistakes.”

“We don’t know that. We’ve seen some of it for ourselves. Did it look all that bad to you?”

“No,” Ilya said slowly. “But if you stepped into the middle of the Russian countryside on a spring day, it might look good to you, too. You’re the scientist. What do you think?”

She sighed, not wanting to admit it. “You’re right. We haven’t seen enough to judge.”

“Elena, you want so much to believe and so do I, but we have so little real understanding.”

“This world that Manas spoke of. It’s called Byelovodye?” she asked.

“So he said.”

“Strange,” Elena said. The name brought memories flooding back. “My father used to tell me stories of Byelovodye, the land of white waters, when I was a kid. When he wasn’t too drunk. They were so real—almost as though he had been there. He used to say that the entrance was up in the Altai. There was even an expedition to look for it, he said, but they didn’t find anything.”

“I remember stories, too. The shamans used to talk about it in Siberia. They spoke of it as a kind of first place, an origin. But I wonder if it really existed, or if their belief brought it into being.”

“But the place we saw was so real. So solid.”

“Elena, I don’t think we should separate from now on if these rifts between the worlds are going to happen.” Ilya paused, adding, “I don’t want to lose you.”

Elena glanced at him. He was staring at the wall.

“No,” she said carefully. There were nuances in that last remark that she was not sure she had interpreted correctly. “We should stick together. It’ll be safer.”

They sat in silence for a moment. She was very conscious of his presence next to her, of the scarred, bony hand resting on the coverlet between them. The prospect of launching into an awkward discussion, with room for so many misunderstandings, was a dismal one. Instead she said, “I’m glad you came back.” Then, not giving herself time to think, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. Ilya turned toward her like a drowning man and they fell back onto the bed.

With Yuri Golynski, her last lover, there had always been the sense that he was doing her a favor. He would glance up with a kind of abstracted arrogance in the middle of sex, suggesting how fortunate she was that he—cosmonaut, Soviet hero—had selected her. It had almost certainly been unintentional, but this trace of smugness had done nothing to enhance the experience. Ilya, however, seemed to have trouble accepting that it was really happening. She could see the disbelief in his face. He kissed her over and over again, burying his face in her neck, then her breasts. When she put her arms around him, she found that he was shaking.

“Ilya, when did you last . . .”

His voice was hoarse. “A very long time.” She slid her hand between them and found how hard he was. He cried out as she touched him. She rolled on top and kissed him again, surprised by the extent to which she was taking the initiative. Usually she was more passive; men were said to prefer it, as it demonstrated a becoming modesty, but she could not hold back.

Ilya did not seem to have any complaints.

“Elena, my darling . . .” His voice was strained and hoarse. “Very soon I’m not going to be able to stop.”

She sat up, straddling him. “Oh, God, we don’t have any condoms.”

There was a familiar, mute male plea in his eyes:
Can’t we do it anyway?
And she nearly gave him what he so clearly wanted, but the old fear of pregnancy was too ingrained, and the needle tracks on his arms were a grim reminder of more recent dangers.

“Lie still,” she told him. She unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it over his shoulders. The muscles were tense beneath his skin; she kneaded them until he relaxed. Then, reaching down, she undid his fly and took him in her hand. Ilya writhed, hands moving back to grip the bars of the bed. It was only then that she realized he was afraid of hurting her. She stroked him, running her free hand up and down his chest with an exhilarating sense of ownership. But she could have counted his ribs, and one of the scars looked red and recent. His hand returned, to press her palm against the damaged flesh. Seconds later he came, quickly and hard, shouting out and causing a vicarious pang deep within her. Elena hoped there was no one in the room next door. Especially since they were supposed to be brother and sister.

Ilya’s eyes fluttered open. “Elena . . .”

If she could not have him inside her, there was the next best thing. She climbed down from the bed, took off her clothes as he watched with exhausted contentment, and slid in beside him. He held her carefully: too thin for his build, but with an unnatural power in muscle and sinew. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed.
Human enough where it counts,
she thought, smiling to herself.

His hand drifted between her legs.

“Ilya?”

“Your turn,” he murmured. “I’ve learned a few things in eight hundred years.”

He was very gentle and she was surprised at how little time it took. She fell asleep almost immediately, without even reaching for her cigarettes.