Sixth Watch (29 page)

We behave like people.

And not only because we disguise ourselves as them.

We Others haven't created anything different.

Perhaps we don't know how to create anything, except spells. And even our spells only work by the will of the Twilight. We're no more than qualified programmers who know how to set incredibly complex tasks for a supercomputer. The one who has the best connection to the Twilight, who formulates his request more precisely and more quickly, is the one who wins.

But otherwise we're surrounded by things that are human.

Offices. Clothes. Cell phones. Food. Movies. Roads. Music.

And the less material components of life too—behavior in relationships, the structure of organizations, moral principles, and work incentives.

When people set up neighborhood watches to patrol the street of their towns, our Watches appeared.

People set up their Inquisition—and we adapted the idea to our needs.

A benefits package for employees? We have all that too, including a staff cafeteria.

“You're looking a bit sad, Anton . . .”

I shook myself, realizing that I'd been standing in front of the salad counter for several minutes and the server, young Anya, was watching me with a smile. Anya was just over twenty and she had been studying at a catering college when one of us spotted that she was latent Other.

And after that something strange happened. Anya was told in the usual way how the world really worked and who she was, but she didn't accept initiation. She didn't refuse, as often happens with people of deep religious faith (“a wizard is cursed anyway, even if he does do good”) or sometimes with members of the creative professions (“but what if I lose my gift for acting?”).

Anya declared that she would like to take a look at the way Others lived. To figure out what we did and whether she wanted a life like that. And whom she felt closer to in general—the Light Ones or the Dark Ones.

It's important to make clear that she was a very positive, kind individual. She was an exemplary daughter, she'd been dating the same young man since she left school, and she worked as a volunteer in programs for the support of orphans, the protection of the natural environment, and the fight against Ebola in Africa.

Well, it all fit—she was clearly one of us. But surprisingly she took this stance: “I don't know, Light or Dark . . .”

Gesar handled Anya's case himself. He talked to her and tried to convince her. And then he took her to Zabulon, but he didn't manage to seduce the girl with the charms of the Dark side either. The result was that she had been working in our cafeteria for a year, but she intended to work with the Dark Ones for a while, and only then decide if she would become an Other, and if she did, which kind it would be.

I think that Gesar and Zabulon were both rather disconcerted by this rational approach. This was something new, coming from a human being.

“I've got a lot on my plate, Anya,” I said with a smile. “And how are you, not made up your mind yet?”

“Not yet, Uncle Anton,” the girl sighed.

“What's all this ‘uncle' business?” I asked indignantly. “Why not call me granddad? You could be my daughter, of course, but for Others a laughable age difference like twenty-five years doesn't really count.”

“It doesn't count anywhere anymore, Uncle Anton,” she replied with a shy smile. “A daughter, a granddaughter, a lover . . . As long as it's a good person, then the age, the skin color, the sex—they're mere details.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Anyway, make your mind up quick, and I'll initiate you myself. In person.”

“Oh, Uncle Anton, it's such a great responsibility,” Anya cried. “You! In person! I'm just a normal girl, really. I can't believe my luck.”

“Enough of that,” I said with a wave of my hand. “What salad would you recommend?”

“The Caesar,” Anya said. “I made the right dressing and toasted the croutons myself. Not like in the restaurants—fling in some mayonnaise, tip the croutons out of the packet, slice up the chicken—and your Caesar salad's ready!”

“You've persuaded an old man,” I said. “Give me a double portion of the salad and a bowl of soup. Any kind, you choose.”

“The borscht turned out well today,” Anya said as she served my salad. “And the pea soup is great, if there's any left . . . Just a moment, Granddad Anton!”

“Now that's really going too far,” I growled as Anya walked away. I knew the girl made fun of everyone, including Gesar, and she needled each one of us on our own weak spot. Not maliciously of course; in fact it was even rather enjoyable to be treated like an individual
and given this personal attention. And on the other hand, it also made it a bit clearer why Anya couldn't make up her mind if she was with the Light Ones or the Dark Ones.

I ought to advise Las to take a look at her. They might get along well . . .

I was still watching Anya walk away when my phone rang in my pocket. I took it out and saw there was no caller ID.

“Hello.”

I heard my wife's alarmed voice.

“Anton, it's me, Svetlana. Come quickly!”

I didn't even think for a second, I simply opened the portal—demolishing part of the serving counter in the process. And I didn't even put the tray down, I just stepped forward, still holding it.

And stopped when I heard Nadya laughing.

My wife and daughter were sitting with their arms around each other, discussing something. The TV was switched off, the wall lamp was glowing gently, there were half-empty cups of tea and a plate of sandwiches on the low table in front of them. Everything was completely and absolutely peaceful and innocent. Well, not quite! There was also a tiny little glass standing in front of Svetlana. Cognac, judging from the color.

“I'm a moron,” I said, and my wife and daughter turned around.

“Well look at that! Dad's brought the salad!” Still laughing, Nadya took the fork off the tray and picked up a bit of food. “Delicious!”

Svetlana looked at me in alarm.

“What is it? What's happened?” she asked.

“I came because you called me,” I said. “You just called and ask me to come immediately in a very frightened-sounding voice.”

“Mum didn't call!” said Nadya, telling me the obvious. Her smile still lingered.

“That's the problem, little one,” I said. “That's the problem!”

“Keep calm,” said Svetlana. “Nobody hitched a ride with you. Where did you open the portal from?”

“From our cafeteria,” I said, nodding at the tray. “From the office.”

“That's a safe place,” said Svetlana, as if she were trying to convince herself. “Maybe it's Gesar being clever, trying to find out where we are?”

“If it's Gesar, he's not just being clever, he's being devious!” I said, annoyed. “Nadya, can you sense anything?”

But my daughter was already standing there with her arms flung out, peering into the Twilight. Every Other naturally develops their own individual stance to launch a particular spell. For instance, when I look hard into the Twilight, I lean forward slightly, pull my elbows in, lower my chin, and sort of glower from under my eyebrows. But Nadya does the opposite—she opens her arms, throws her head back, and closes her eyes.

“Nothing, Dad,” she said, shaking herself and opening her eyes. “Everything . . . everything's blocked off. Everything's as usual. On all the levels.”

Our refuge really was isolated on all levels of the Twilight. Only the portal, which had to be opened by one of us, could bring someone here. Of course, we couldn't see anything from the refuge either; the only thing Nadya could do was check that the defenses were intact.

“What could anyone tell from watching me teleport?” I asked. I picked up the glass of cognac off the table and drank it. Svetlana, feeling a bit calmer now, wagged her finger at me. “Someone tricked me. But what for? Just for a joke?”

“The most anyone could discover is the vector of displacement,” said Nadya. “I've just realized that if you monitor all the levels of the Twilight simultaneously, you can determine the direction. Like a line, a shadow, across the surface of the earth.”

Svetlana and I looked at Nadya.

“I couldn't watch all the levels like that,” our daughter confessed. “And even if you figure out the direction, you still can't tell where to look next, what the distance is.”

“But of course you can!” said Svetlana. “It's where the line runs
into an invisible barrier in the Twilight. You just follow it until you bang your head against a wall. Smack! You can't see the wall, but you'll run right into it.”

“And the barrier's impenetrable,” Nadya sighed. “Stupid, right?”

“We're leaving,” Svetlana said with a nod, getting up off the sofa. “Nadya, open a portal. To the Watch office.”

“Which one?” our daughter asked briskly.

“It doesn't matter. Wherever's easier. Day Watch, Night Watch, that's not important right now!”

Nadya nodded. She wrinkled up her face, frowned, and smiled guiltily.

“It's not working. Everything's drifting . . . I can't take aim . . .”

I suddenly remembered I was still holding the tray in my hands.

“This is a tray from the Watch cafeteria,” I said. “Can you pick up the trail?”

Svetlana looked at me indignantly and twirled her finger beside her temple.

“Are you talking to your daughter or a dog?”

But Nadya wasn't concerned about such subtle points. She took the tray and stared at it.

Objects preserve memories. About where and when they were made and about people they have belonged to. In this particular tray there was a memory of a factory that produced polyvinylchloride resin, and of the location of the cafeteria in the Watch building.

“Yes, that's easier,” Nadya said delightedly. “Just a moment . . .”

She ran her palm across the tray, catching a drop of dressing that had fallen off the salad. She looked at her hand, frowned, took out a paper handkerchief, and wiped off the dressing. Then she put her hand back on the tray . . .

Looking at my daughter, I thought about how some things have to be learned. And how your genetic background, individual aptitudes, and unique abilities are no help at all in such cases.

You might find that everything in life comes easily. You might have the fingers of a Paganini, the looks of a Marlon Brando, add
perfect pitch and a Stradivarius violin into the bargain. But show up late for your first solo concert at the Santori Hall in Tokyo or the Golden Hall in Vienna and the disappointed critics will vilify and revile you.

It's not because you're an idiot. It's because, for instance, you didn't build enough time into your plans for the traffic jams in Tokyo, or you didn't set your watch forward to Viennese time. The mistake will be petty, absurd, and disastrous.

When you're at war and the enemy is close at hand, you don't fiddle with tissues in your pocket. If the dirt on your fingers bothers you so much, if you really have to wipe your hand, you wipe it on your clothes. A few seconds can decide everything, or almost everything.

This is something you only learn from life.

I sensed the final moments that we had been granted to escape draining away. I couldn't even shout to make Nadya hurry—she needed to maintain her concentration. If she couldn't open the portal, then things were very, very bad indeed . . .

“Just a moment, Dad,” Nadya whispered. “Just a moment . . .”

The air darkened, forming the aperture of a portal. I caught Svetlana's joyful glance and I felt really delighted myself.

And then the building was shaken by a heavy blow.

The TV pitched forward and fell off the table, the dishes started jangling in the cupboard, cracks ran across the walls. Nadya staggered and dropped the tray. The portal that had almost taken shape disappeared.

She cried out as if she was in pain and went limp—I caught her by the shoulders and froze, gazing around. Whatever was happening, it didn't seem like a magical attack. Or even like an earthquake—and anyway, what kind of earthquake could there be in St. Petersburg?

“Nadya, what's wrong with you?” asked Svetlana. My daughter started moving and straightened up awkwardly.

“They broke off the portal so abruptly I wasn't expecting it.”

She seemed more bewildered than hurt. I tried to imagine what
it was like to have your spell suddenly broken off like that. And I couldn't. I'd never had that experience.

“Let's go,” I said.

We started moving toward the door—and then there was another blow.

A more powerful one.

The wall with the bricked-up window in it cracked and bulged inward like a blister. The air was filled with mortar and brick dust. Some of the bricks poked out into the room.

“Quickly!” I shouted.

It was a solid door, very strong, made of steel, with the old wooden one neatly attached to it on the outside. And two strong locks—CISA locks might be common in Russia, but the “Banham” would have confounded any burglar. And three bolt bars as well—not just little bolts, but bars running right across the door.

I opened both locks and pulled back one of the bolt bars, and then the third blow struck. This time the old bricks gave way and came flying into the room.

They were followed by a cast-iron wrecking ball—a huge lump of metal on a cable. It burst in and hung there in the middle of the room for a moment. Time seemed to stand still; I saw broken bricks frozen in midair (the mortar had taken such a strong grip that the bricks broke in half, instead of parting at the joints). The battered sphere had once been painted in cheerful blue and yellow tones, but now the paint had flaked away, exposing dirty-gray metal. It was bathed in surprisingly bright sunlight from the enclosed inner courtyard, and standing there in the courtyard, almost completely filling it, was a crane . . .