Nine Layers of Sky (21 page)

“It’s rusted shut.” Delicately, with the point of the sword, Ilya freed the plate. It came up with a teeth-aching scrape, revealing a dark hole below. “Hand me the light.”

“What can you see?” Elena said, craning over his shoulder.

“Nothing much. Wait.” He sank to his knees.

“Don’t go down there.”

Visions of a descent into the earth and the plate slamming shut above them were haunting her, but he said, “I can’t see anything if I don’t.”

“It’s at the end of the room,” the
akyn
said. “I’ll go first, if that would make it easier to trust me.”

“I’m staying here,” Elena told them. She wished they had managed to get hold of a gun. The
akyn
lowered himself into the opening. Ilya turned to Elena and pressed the fishing-rod case into her hands.

“What if you need this?” she whispered.

“I may not be the hero I used to be, but I think I can tackle a frail old man if he tries anything. Keep a watch on the door.”

Ilya swung down into the hole. There was the gleam of torchlight on metal walls. She heard him whisper, “My God.”

“Do you see it?” the
akyn
asked.

“Ilya? What is it?” Elena called down.

“I haven’t seen anything like it for eighty years, but it looks like Tsilibayev’s machine.”

“It’s based on that device, which was a copy of something much older.” The
akyn
’s voice, reverberating from the underground room, sounded pleased, as if presented with a particularly promising pupil. “We didn’t discover it until recently, when the installation was closed down. I want Elena to take a look at it.”

“Why me? I was in astrophysics. I know nothing about machines like this, whatever it is,” Elena said. She had no intention of going down into the chamber.

“You’re a scientist. You have a better chance of understanding it than either Ilya or myself.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t destroy it when they closed the facility.”

“A lot of places like this were simply abandoned.

Lack of funds, the Soviet withdrawal. There’s a bio-weaponry plant in Kazakhstan that was just left—they took the samples, but not the equipment. And the number of nuclear installations that remain are notorious. Remember that submarine base in Archangelsk, where the electricity company cut the power off because the Navy couldn’t pay the bills? The subs were just about to go critical when some admiral came up with the cash. . . .”

“If it is a gate,” Elena asked, “can it be opened?”

“If you have the means,” she heard the
akyn
say softly. But Elena was listening to another sound. Someone was walking around the wall of the polygon.

The footsteps were soft and deliberate.

“Someone’s coming,” she hissed. The torch was abruptly extinguished. Elena pressed herself back against the wall. She could see the door between the thick lattice of the girders. It was opening. A whistling sound began: a single sustained note, singing along the girders until they began to vibrate. Elena’s ears hummed and rang, and through the sound-filled air she heard Ilya make a small noise of pain and protest in the chamber below. Someone stepped through the door. She saw a dark figure dressed in military fatigues, a gun in one hand. The
akyn
scrambled from the hole. The man was striding swiftly forward, heading for the metal plate.

Elena’s head rang; she felt as though someone had stabbed a needle in each ear. She cried out from the shadows. The man raised the gun and it was aimed directly at her, but Elena was already throwing herself flat, still clutching the sword, rolling over and over as the muffled whine of a bullet sang past her ear. The light of the torch swung upward and she recognized Manas.

She had no time for thought. She struck out with the sword, aiming at Manas’ knees. She felt the blade cut through flesh and strike bone. There was a sudden smell of blood. Nausea rose sharp in Elena’s throat. Manas fell backward, toppling in silence. Two figures swarmed up from the ground: Ilya, followed by the
akyn.
But the whistling was growing louder and louder. The polygon began to shake, entering destructive resonance.
Some kind of sonic weapon,
she thought with distant analysis.
Sounds like it’s going out of control.
Above them, a girder twisted and fell, pinning Manas to the floor.

Elena, clutching the sword, scrambled to her feet and slipped on slick wetness. Ilya was flat against the wall, hands pressed to his ears. The
akyn
was bent double at his side. Manas was writhing like a fish beneath the girder; she saw a white flash of bone as he moved. Elena fought back another wave of sickness. Grasping Ilya’s arm, she hauled him up, and dragged him toward the door, with the
akyn
close behind. As they reached it, the roof tore open and crashed down, bringing the walls of the polygon with it and enveloping them in dust. Elena, looking back, saw the floor cave in, burying the machine. She heard the crunch of metal as it gave way. They stumbled out beneath a cold, moonlit sky.

There was a dark trickle of blood down each side of Ilya’s face and Elena’s hand was wet, too. She looked at it, puzzled, until she saw that it was Ilya’s blood. His sleeve was torn open and there was a gouge in the flesh beneath where the bullet had grazed him.

“You’re hurt!”

He frowned at her. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard him say, “What?”

“Out,” she mouthed and pointed to the perimeter fence. He nodded, grim-faced. They were halfway there when the
akyn
stumbled and fell. Elena dropped to her knees beside him. “We have to get him to a hospital.”

“Joq,”
the
akyn
murmured.
No.
His hands went to his chest and she thought he was exploring the wound, then realized it was the old Kyrgyz gesture of apology.
“Esseq.”

She thought that meant:
I’m hot,
but the night was bitter.

Then the
akyn
said more clearly, “I’m dying. Give me my rosary—in my pocket.”

Elena reached into blood-wet cloth and found the beads. She pressed them into his hand and his fingers closed around them.

“What
happened
? I thought Manas was on your side?”

“Manas has betrayed me. I don’t know why.” The
akyn
’s voice was bewildered. “But it’s not the only one, the only gate between this world and the next one. The other—the oldest one—it’s in Samarkand, in his tomb.” The
akyn
was gasping now, barely intelligible.

“In whose tomb?”

“The marauder’s. Go to Samarkand, protect the gate, stop Kovalin.” He seized her hand, pressing the bloody rosary into her skin. “Keep dreaming,” she thought she heard him say, and then he died. But she kept hold of his hand until she was quite certain that he had gone.

Ilya picked up the
akyn
’s skullcap and put it over the quiet face, hesitated, then made the sign of the cross. They headed for the perimeter fence and clambered up the hillside. When Elena looked back, there was no movement from within the compound. The polygon lay in ruins, like a broken shell. She reached for Ilya’s hand and did not speak again until they reached the shore of the lake.

Interlude

BYELOVODYE, N.E. 80

From where Anikova stood, the white dome of the mosque seemed curiously out of perspective, foreshortened into a squat mushroom. It had been one of the first buildings in Azhutsk, assembled in the early, heady days of the colony. The current imam had showed Anikova the photographs, and so she knew that beneath the crystalline nanoplastic tiles and ribbing of the dome lay the nose of an ordinary C-21 transport zeppelin. It seemed that the mosque had remained in this sketched stage for a decade or so: the muezzin ringing out each day from a minaret made from a geological testing shaft. Now, the dome rose like a pearl among the drab compartment blocks and refineries, and below it lay the little garden in which Anikova now stood, waiting to question the imam.

She did not relish the task, but she had been afraid that Kitai might volunteer in her place. The news of the imam’s possible involvement in the insurrectionist movement had come only a few days before, and there were very personal reasons why Anikova did not want the Mechvor to set her mind on the man. The imam was the grandfather of Natasha’s boyfriend, and though she did not particularly like Nursultan, he was still associated with her family and any disgrace he suffered, could affect her. It was all creeping too close to home.

Imam Socdian came from Earth itself, from Samarkand. He was well past ninety, but in his youth, it was rumored among those of the
apparatch
who were aware of the colony’s true origins, he had made a pilgrimage to Mecca. An observant and reflective man, he had taken copious notes, and when he had crossed the dimensional boundary to Byelovodye he had spoken at length with the rector of the Architectural Institute of Pergama and commissioned the garden.

It was shaded by genetically enhanced trees: a persimmon-apricot cross with small red flowers. The walls were plastered in white stucco, but at the end of the wall that abutted the mosque lay a covered portico divided by three arches, with a fountain at the center. Each arch had been decorated with the azure faience tiles that Imam Socdian had seen and admired on his travels, so that on stepping into the building one felt as though one had plunged into a well. The cool blueness reached the pinnacle of the dome and across the watery expanse raced gilded inscriptions taken from the Koran.

Imam Socdian had mostly complied with the old dictat against representation, but at some point he must have rebelled, for at the back of the portico lay three panels: a phoenix rising from a fiery city; a tiger nose to nose with a deer; and a curvaceous, cavorting horse.

Anikova waited for the imam beneath the tawny flowers of the persimmons and wrestled with her conscience. She did not know where it would end, this hunting down and interrogation of suspects, this theft of dreams. The garden was a representation of a paradise in which Anikova did not believe. But paradise was what the first colonists had tried so hard to create, in a dangerously imperfect world. Byelovodye was not heaven, but it could still be a dream made real, and places like this were a part of that. If she handed over the imam to the Mechvor, would he ever create such a garden again? She looked down at her dark uniform, with its crisp creases, a black scorpion among the thorns of a rose.

Immersed in coolness, she closed her eyes and listened to the murmur of the bees in the persimmons and the liquid notes of the little fountain. A discreet cough announced the imam’s presence. Anikova looked up.

“You look very comfortable,” the old man said. “I hardly like to disturb you.”

“I was waiting for you,” Anikova told him.

“Would you like some chai?”

It would have been rude to refuse. Anikova followed him to the table beneath the portico and watched as he poured a careful stream of tea into two glasses. Anikova had one spoonful of sugar; the imam took three.

The gilded ribbing of the dome momentarily caught the light and blazed against the sky. Anikova blinked.

“What did you want to see me about?” the imam asked.

Normally, Anikova would simply have issued a warrant and a request that the suspect present himself for questioning. But these circumstances were a little different. She heard herself say, “Did you know that there are rumors about you?”

From the corner of her eye she saw the imam become very still, but when he spoke, his voice sounded as mild and pleasant as ever.

“What kind of rumors, Colonel?”

“Not fortunate ones. You see, the story of your pilgrimage in your youth is known, and there are those among my colleagues who claim that the few who are still alive, who have lived on Earth, want to keep the dream-gates open. The suspicion is that they cannot be entirely trusted.”

“The climate has changed,” the imam said, still mild. “A decade ago, that would not have been such a problem.”

“As you say, the climate has changed.”

“What do you intend to do about it?”

Anikova should have handed him the warrant at that point, but she thought instead of Kitai’s blank dark gaze and she leaned forward to put a hand on the old imam’s arm.

“Leave. Get out of Pergama, go back to Earth while you still can.”

“I don’t think that’s an option any longer. I know nothing of these new republics, and from what I hear, their brand of Islam isn’t what I was brought up to believe in. Fanaticism grows, fundamentalism grows, or so I hear—” He gave her a sidelong look. “Too many of my coreligionists have turned murderers. It is not the true faith. I will not be branded a terrorist when all I wish to do is to encourage minds to turn toward God. This is our colony, our sanctuary, just as much as it is of your people.”

“Then at least go into hiding,” Anikova said, recklessly.

“Why are you warning me, Colonel? We all know who you work for. Is it because of your sister and my grandson?”

“No,” Anikova said. “It is because—” She did not know what to say. “Because of a crisis in faith.”

They looked at each other in silence. The dome of the mosque seemed as fragile as a shell now that the light had gone. An evening breeze lifted the glossy leaves of the persimmon.

“I should go,” Anikova told the imam.

“I will think about what you say,” he murmured. He walked with her to the garden gate, through the gathering shadows.

Part Eight

One

KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

Are you planning to finish that?” Elena asked warily.

Ilya tapped the half-empty vodka bottle. “What, this?” It was now close to midnight. It had only been over the last hour that his hearing had properly returned. His ears still rang.

“Yes.”

That look, he thought, must be one that mothers passed down to their daughters: a practiced, repressed resentment. And he resented it in turn, with its connotations of control and disappointment, but he knew that all it really evoked was his own guilt. When it had come down to it, he had not been able to protect either Elena or the old
akyn,
and that was why he was drinking.

At least his impulse had been to reach for the bottle rather than trawling the unlit streets of Karakol in search of the nearest dealer. The weight of it fell on them both: generations of broken promises to women and to God. He knew he was reminding her of her father. The realization made him push the bottle away and go to sit beside her.

“No, I’m not going to drink it all,” he said. “I want to make love to you. And I’m so sorry.”

“Your hearing is abnormally sensitive, isn’t it? No wonder you couldn’t do anything.” Her face was creased in sympathy and, with astonishment, he realized that she did not blame him.

“It hurt enough,” he said. “Elena—what happened back there? I could not see.”

“I struck Manas with the sword, across his legs. I must have hurt him badly.” Her face crumpled and he held her tightly, murmuring reassurances. But there was nothing he could say that would make it any better, because it was hard to kill, and should never be an easy thing, and the consequences had to be faced. He bitterly wished that he had been able to save her, not from the violence, but from the horror of having to commit it.

“I’m all right,” she muttered, and reached for a tissue. After a moment she added, “Do you think he’s dead?”

“I don’t know. His kind—my kind—seem to be hard to kill.”

“I think we should assume that he is not dead, then.” This time, it was Elena who reached for the vodka and poured herself a measured shot. “That thing in the chamber, beneath the polygon. You told the
akyn
you knew what it was.”

“I’ve seen such a thing only once before, years ago. I was working for the Cheka. They sent me to kill a man.”

He gave a brief version of the events of eighty years past, glancing at Elena to see how she was taking it. There was interest in her face, not judgment. “They told me that he was trying to develop a time machine.”

Elena’s eyebrows rose. “And you believed this?”

“You have no idea—or perhaps you do—
what
the security services have experimented with over the past fifty years. Telepathy, clairvoyance, farseeing techniques, hallucinogenics . . . The KGB has always been professionally credulous.”

“Russians are obsessed with the parapsychological.” Elena frowned. “If they do their experiments in a proper scientific way—well, that’s all right. But often they don’t.”

“Any rumor—that the Americans were using farseeing to spy on documents in Moscow, that they had developed over-the-horizon radar—anything was enough to send the Lubyanka into a flurry like a bunch of chickens. During the Great Patriotic War, the very notion of putting a man into space would have gotten you a one-way ticket to Siberia. Rumors work like dreams; they feed off need, and the security forces are obliged to investigate these claims just in case one of them happens to be true.”

“And some of them are, aren’t they? Other dimensions, eight-hundred-year-old heroes . . . What
must
they have made of you?”

“They just thought I was good at my job. I never told them what I was; I falsified my records over and over again. I think I always secretly hoped that someone would find out, just to see what might happen. I have a self-destructive streak, Elena. You may have noticed. And the device that I saw underneath the polygon—it was the same thing. There’s been a long-term project to open the wall between the worlds. That thing you’re carrying is a part of Tsilibayev’s machine, or something very similar.” He paused. “Tsilibayev had copied older technology. Perhaps this is an original component.”

“It had some kind of shell around itself when I found it. I don’t think it’s something that a twentieth-century scientist could have made. It seems too— alien.” She paused. “So what part do you think Kovalin plays in all this?”

“I know what I’ve been told, but I don’t know what to believe. Manas said one thing; Kovalin said another. It’s likely they both lied. But I think the key to all this is control of the dream-gates. Different forces, vying for power. What else is new?”

“I don’t understand why Manas didn’t try to kill us in Bishkek. I’m assuming he was after the coil.”

“He wasn’t sure that we had it. Perhaps he wanted to kill several birds with one stone: destroy the machine and the coil. Or perhaps he had another plan.”

“I’m not sure that he intended to destroy the installation. It sounded to me as though that device he had went out of control.”

“I don’t know.”

“What happened after you dynamited the lab?” Elena whispered. He was very conscious of her nearness, her warmth.

“Siberia. Originally it was a ten-year sentence, but I knew they never expected me to come back. Not many people did in those days. But I survived, as you see.”

“God, Ilya, you must have been through hell.”

“I am a Siberian peasant. I’m used to it. It was hard, but at least it was quiet. Chechnya was worse.”

“You fought in Chechnya?”

“Chechnya, Ingushetia, Afghanistan. I’ve fought everywhere. It’s the only thing I really know how to do.” He knew that she was staring at him and he did not want to see what might be present in her face, so he said, “The
akyn
spoke to you before he died. I could not hear. What did he say? Write it down for me.”

When she had done so, he read the scribbled note carefully before touching it to the little flame of the cigarette lighter.

Samarkand. The place of the battle with Manas that had passed into such improbable legend. He had not been there for many years, but the knowledge that it contained a gateway to Byelovodye did not surprise him. Of all the cities in this region of Asia, surely Samarkand—domed with gold and azure, ruined and rebuilt again and again over the centuries—was the true home of dreams. And the tomb of the marauder must be that of Timur the Lame, nightmare son of the steppe, whom the West knew as Tamerlane, and who was rumored to have been one of the first of the
bogatyri
. Tamerlane, whose army reached St. Petersburg and who, if history had been a little different, might have conquered Russia itself. Ilya considered: Was this the key to Manas’ involvement? Was Manas, out of Central Asian nationalism, working with the Byelovodyeans with the aim of bringing Tamerlane’s ancient dream to life and causing the downfall of Russia? But how?

“I still don’t have proper papers,” Elena said aloud.

“But we can pay. We got into Kyrgyzstan, didn’t we?” He spoke with a confidence that he did not feel. She accepted it, but he could tell it was just that she wanted to believe him.