Nine Layers of Sky (30 page)

Fourteen

UZBEKISTAN, 21ST CENTURY

By the time he reached the square of the Registan, the sun was boiling down behind the mountains and the air was growing colder. Ilya, who had begun to feel sweat trickle down the back of his neck, was relieved. He looked about him.

The square of the Registan had hardly changed. If he half-closed his eyes, he could imagine himself back in the days when this was the center of the world—one of the greatest cities of the East—instead of some Uzbek backwater. The great gate of the Sher Dor
madrasa
rose above him: gold and azure, heretically emblazoned with lions and deer. The suns above each lionback bore faces: surely an affront to Islam, Ilya thought, and emblematic of a much older religion.

Here in Samarkand, ancient crossroads of the world, the different faiths seemed to coexist peacefully enough: Islam, Zoroastrianism, perhaps even Christianity. And the newest faith of all, Communism, was evident in the roar of traffic from the modern Soviet city that lay behind these old walls. He thought again of Manas: how greatly must the Kyrgyz
bogatyr
resent these Russian incursions, this Soviet presence.

Across the huge expanse of the square, the Tilla Kari mosque mirrored the Sher Dor, gleaming with the light of the sun and the sky until the world seemed inverted, swung into a sea of blue and gold. The turrets—built, Ilya had once heard, to withstand earthquakes—seemed to loom and reel above the square. The sight made him dizzy. He looked down, shaking his head.

There was a tiny scratch of sound, and he turned to see a sparrow fluttering in the dust of the square. But it was the only thing he could hear. The outside world, the noise of the traffic, was gone, as though a great lid had been clapped over the Registan.

The sparrow whirled up in a puff of dust, and with a jolt, Ilya caught sight of Kitai. She was standing at the edge of the square, looking back. But she was curiously insubstantial. He could see the blue tiles of the wall through her body, as though she had become part of the sky, and there was a second shape contained within her own: something small and dark. Ilya recognized the ghoul that he had seen in the market, and again on the hillside. The shape moved as he watched, lying within her form like a seed. She took a step back and disappeared.

Ilya raced toward the place where she had vanished. There was no sign that she had ever stood there, only a sunlit patch of stone flags with celandines growing between the cracks and dust motes sparkling against the blue tiles. Ilya searched the wall, but there was nothing, no evidence of secret exits or entrances. He shut his eyes and listened. The world was silent.

Fifteen

BYELOVODYE, N.E. 80

The horse clan rode down the slope toward the barrows, sweeping wide across the steppe in a fan. Elena kept an eye on the skies, but there was no sign of hostility or pursuit.

“I thought they’d try to stop us,” she shouted to Tengeri over the beat of the horses’ hooves.

“They surely will,” the shaman called back.

“Then where are they?”

“I do not know.”

Elena could hear the hiss of the horsetail banners in the rising wind. As they reached the bottom of the ridge, the Warrior and Mati rode up beside the shaman’s horse.

“We have work to do,” the
rusalka
called.

“Elena should stay here,” the shaman said. “I—”

But then the world was filled with the roar of aircraft. Elena, looking up, saw that Central Command had found the horse clan.

Zeppelins drifted across the steppe like rogue moons, casting dark shadows beneath them. An arrowhead plane darted between, down, raced overhead, and was gone.
Reconnaissance,
thought Elena. The open steppe was horribly exposed.

“Get back!” the shaman shouted to the clan. “Get back to the trees!”

The Warrior’s mare had wheeled around and was heading down toward the barrows. Tengeri kicked his horse in the ribs and, ignoring Elena’s cry of protest, followed. She clung to Tengeri as they bolted down the slope. A nearby sagebush went up in a fragrant ball of flame. This time, there was no evidence of dream technology. Central Command had, it seemed, decided to do things the old-fashioned way.

The Warrior’s mare turned, spooked by noise and smoke, and stumbled, colliding with Tengeri’s mount. Both horses went down, thrashing. As she was thrown clear, Elena saw the Warrior pinned beneath the mare; the
rusalka
scrambled free. Elena got to her knees. Tengeri lay still. But the bag containing the distorter coil lay only a little distance away, among the scrub. Without stopping to think, Elena hauled herself to her feet and ran toward it.

“Elena!” the
rusalka
shouted. “What are you doing?” They reached the bag together. Elena snatched at it but her wrist was gripped by razors. The
rusalka
’s eyes were fiery-cold. Her claws pierced Elena’s skin, but Elena did not let go of the bag. She reached out and thrust the
rusalka
away. Mati clawed at her, drawing blood, spitting and hissing. Elena struck the
rusalka
across the face as hard as she could, knocking Mati to the ground. Clutching the bag, she raced for the barrows.

Sixteen

SAMARKAND, UZBEKISTAN, 21ST CENTURY

At last he could hear Kitai’s faint footsteps, pattering across the flags of the old square. Ilya followed, running along the wall to the corner of the courtyard. He glimpsed a dark shape vanishing into the shadows. She was heading for Tamerlane’s tomb.

He chased her past the southernmost
madrasa
and out into the road. Here, all was normal: a twenty-first century afternoon with the traffic rumbling past on its way to the city center. Dodging trucks and taxis, Ilya crossed the road and found himself in a graveyard, surrounded by the etched faces of boys. All dated from the 1970’s and early 1980’s; it was a graveyard for the Afghan dead. He could almost feel the presence of their ghosts, accusing him, the eternal survivor, as he made his way between the pointed stones and up the hillside.

Up on the hill, the fumes were not so overpowering. The scent of earth seeped through, baking in the sun. He came over the ridge and found himself at the end of a corridor of medieval tombs, fronted with tiles and ochre brick. It was the place where he had fought Manas, all those years ago. He paused, memory snatching him back. He could almost see the blood, spilling glossy over the stones. He remembered Manas’ words all those years ago:
Russians are not welcome here.
This place is sacred.
But Kitai’s footsteps were slipping on gravel, hissing through dry grass. He followed her onto the brow of the hill.

Kitai led him past the dome of an ancient observatory. The blue-tiled roof and the long sweep of a ruined sextant raised further memory. This was the memorial to Ulug Bek, the most famous of Eastern astronomers, murdered by his own fanatical son, who had considered his father’s work an affront to Islam. The place reminded him sharply of Elena: another gazer-at-stars, but please God, not another victim of tribal superstition. Ilya drew a sharp breath and hurried on.

He could see Kitai clearly now, still in her double form. She had discarded the coat, and the shape of the ghoul was running beside her like a shadow. It reminded him of the
rusalki
. Was she the same kind of being, dual-natured, both lovely and repellent depending on dreamer and dream? He had no real desire to find out.

He followed the figure of Kitai across a wide courtyard of stones. A building lay ahead: a round tower crowned with tiles the color of the sky, and he recognized the tomb of Tamerlane. Kitai’s double figure slowed and seeped through the stones of the wall. Ilya ran around the building until he found a door. He wrenched it open and fell through into the mausoleum. Window slits lay up in the dome of the roof. Light splashed down the walls, ran over the marble floor like water. The place was lined with gold, thick and glowing. He could smell incense, smoke, polish. In the center of the room stood a tall plinth covered with a slab of cracked black jade, twice the length of a man. A pole stood at its head, bearing a scarlet horsetail banner.

Beyond the tomb stood Kitai, hands spread on black jade, and beside her was Kovalin the
Volkh,
staring at Ilya with a dead black gaze. But as he stared, a third person limped from the shadows. It was Manas.

Seventeen

BYELOVODYE, N.E. 80

Elena risked a look back. The horse clan had melted back into the trees. Beyond, the zeppelins moved like great ghosts. The plane had disappeared, presumably sweeping around for another pass. The
rusalka
was nowhere in sight. Elena emptied her bag onto the grass and seized the distorter coil, then paused. She had no firm plan, other than flight, and that was clearly out of the question. It was Ilya who had the connection with the coil, everyone said so.

And yet the coil was sentient, in some respect, and it had listened to her before. She looked down at it as it lay in her cupped hands. Perhaps, Elena thought, it was itself a dream-artifact, something conjured to fulfill a goal. She glanced around her.

This land was so similar to the steppes around Baikonur. There was the same smell of sagebrush and saxaul, the same thin earth beneath her feet, between the stems of long grass. Memories flooded back: the excitement before every launch, the air of comradeship and shared purpose. She looked up. She could almost
see
the launch site, like a great shadow upon the air.

The coil grew warm in her palm.

“I remember Baikonur,” she whispered to the coil. “Won’t you listen to me again? Won’t you read my dreams?”

Nothing.

“Please,” Elena whispered.

You have their blood in you, but you are yet not my
kind.

“But you helped me before.” What blood did it mean?

That was different. You sought a lesser thing—to rift,
not build.

“I did not know what I sought. Not the first time, anyway.”

If I am to build your dream, you must send me into it.
Even then, without a mind to aid me, your dream may not
last.

“What am I to do to make it last?”

Stay.

“Stay where?” Elena asked.

Stay here, in Byelovodye. Help to maintain your
dream.

“Not to go back to Earth? But I have family there— my mother—I . . .” What would become of Anna without her?

You will be needed here,
the coil said, small-voiced, implacable. From above the forest came the roar of aircraft. If Byelovodye stole the world’s dreams, what would happen to Baikonur? What would befall the new space station? She thought of rockets, rotting on the launchpad.

“Then I will stay,” she said, and forced her mother’s face from her mind.

Another pause, then familiar blue light spilled out to fill the air in a spiral: azure, electric. Dazzled, Elena closed her eyes.

In her imagination it rose out of the steppe like a skeleton: a great bracket of metal, glittering in the afternoon sun, a settlement of polygons, gantries, support buildings. It cradled a ship. But the gantries were rusted and worn, twisted into shards of shattered metal. The walls of the support buildings were pitted and unplastered.

Then Mati slunk around Elena’s peripheral vision, more animal now than human, claws visible.

“No,” the
rusalka
hissed. “Not that. That is the wrong dream. Give me the coil.”

She tried not to look at the
rusalka,
to steer her gaze away from those eyes, but they had captured her and held her tight. Her head felt as though it had been clamped in a migraine vise. With effort, she turned her head away, feeling her sinews stretch to the breaking point.

Beyond, the drifting zeppelins had all gone. Only the skeins of blue light from the distorter coil and the
rusalka
remained. Why did Mati not attack? But the light now fell between herself and the
rusalka,
rendering Mati indistinct, as though glimpsed through heat or static.

The
rusalka
began whispering to her, insidious. “Forget your dead dreams. Technology has failed you; let it go. Give up the coil to the Warrior; let a new dream begin. Return the world to this grass, this earth.” The
rusalka
’s voice hissed and murmured inside Elena’s head.

For a moment, it was almost seductive. She thought of the steppe in spring: the flowers blooming out of the black earth, the larks rising above the grasslands. Peace as far as the eye could see and the ear could hear. No more radiation, botched experiments, seas turned to dust, ideals dying on their feet.

She thought of the children she would never have, the infertility she had never properly faced and of which she had only ever spoken of once to Ilya, when it had seemed safe to do so. The doctors had never been certain whether her sterility was to do with atmospheric nuclear testing, the background radiation that was much too high throughout the whole region, or the work she had undertaken in laboratories as a girl. One of them had told her that it could have been caused by toxins in the rocket fuel itself, and that was the cruelest possibility of all, that her beloved work had been responsible for her childlessness. She had accepted it with the fatalism that was expected of her, swallowed despair, and moved on.

“Let it go,” the
rusalka
murmured sweetly. “Let us help you.” Compassion wielded like a scalpel.

“But without dreams, I am nothing,” Elena said.

“Nothing? You still have the wind over the earth, the sound of rain, the green of spring . . .” The
rusalka
’s voice was gentle, persuasive, and Elena thought,
That
is all they are. Creatures of nature, resenting humankind.
Elena had no doubt that the
rusalka
thought she was doing the right thing: helping humanity, returning it to the old ways. And there was something in that dream of nature that spoke directly to her Russian soul: always the pull of the earth, the turn of the seasons. But something different was tugging her away.

She looked up, and her vision darkened. It was no longer day and she could see the stars. They burned and blazed, as brightly as they had always done. She thought,
They, too, are part of the natural world. Our
dreams are not mutually exclusive. The mistakes we make,
the price we pay, are part of being human, as long as we
learn from them. And I want the dream of the stars, not
only of the soil.

She looked back. The
rusalka
was gone. Elena stood alone in the middle of the steppe, her feet freezing in a sudden gust of snow, the stars curling above her head.

She closed her eyes and thought of Baikonur.

She imagined the gantries knitting together, the tongues of rust circling back, to shine in a great mesh of shining metal. She dreamed that the buildings around her were newly plastered, filled with equipment and regularly paid technicians. Slowly, as she focused, the gantry became sharper, brighter, and the rocket that rested in its metal cage glittered in a sudden shaft of sunlight. A figure walked across her peripheral vision, wearing a lab coat and as fragile as a ghost.

Lastly, she concentrated on the rocket: something slick and sleek and futuristic, something that present-day Russian technology could never emulate. It rose high on the launchpad, and for a moment the curve of its engines blotted out the stars.

Send me to it.

The coil was light and insubstantial now, and she thought, strangely,
Why, it has itself been nothing but a
dream all along.
She raised the coil high above her head, saw it stream and melt and vanish against the rocket’s side as though she had cast it into a pool. Blue light stretched and spread to fill the world.