Dmitry Glukhovsky - Metro 2034 English fan translation (v1.0) (docx) (5 page)

Istomin had nothing against the sect. Truly their missionaries lingered in the neighboring stations, trying to save fallen souls but these shepherds never came to the
Sev
astopolskay
a
nor did they hinder passing travelers – maybe with their missionary talk. The clean and empty tunnel between
Tulskay
a
and
Serpuchov
skay
a
were preferred by the caravans.

Once again Istomin looked along the line. The
Tulskay
a
? Their residents lived from what the bypassing convoys of the
Sev
astopolskay
a
and the smart merchants from
Serpuchov
skay
a
left behind. They repaired every possible technical piece of scrap metal and others searched for day jobs. For days they sat there and waited for one of the foremen offering slave labor. They were poor as well, but at least they didn’t have the greasy crook look in their eyes like the people from the
Serpuchov
skay
a
. And at this station there was order, dangers welds you together.

The next station was the
Nagatinskay
a
. On Istomins plan it was marked with a short line, meaning that is was uninhabited. But that was only half the truth. Nobody remained their very long but shady folk living like animals.

Absolute darkness reigned here and small groups hid from strangers. Only scarcely the dim shine of a campfire lit
through the pillars and illuminated the dark figures that held a secret meeting. Only unknowing and brave individuals stayed overnight because not all of the inhabitants of this station were humans. In the whispering darkness of the
Nagatinskay
a
you could sometimes see the grotesque silhouettes of creatures scouring in the dark. And sometimes the shrill scream of a homeless person filled the remaining with fear until the victim got dragged into a cave and was devoured.

Further than to the
Nagatinskay
a
nobody dared to come, so the area between this station and the strongholds of the
Sev
astopolskay
a
was an empty wasteland. It wasn’t entirely empty though – and the scouts from
Sev
astopolskay
a
tried not to meet them.

But now something new had emerged out of the tunnels. Something unknown. Something that had swallowed everybody that had tried to pass through this supposedly explored route. How should Istomin know if his station, even though when every able resident picked up a weapon, would form an army big enough to deal with
that
? He stood up burdensome, walked to the map and marked the area between the
Serpuchov
skay
a
and the
Nachimov
skay
a prospect
with a pen. Right next to it he placed a big question mark. He had
wanted to place it next to the word “
prospect
” but somehow it landed next to the
Sev
astopolskay
a
.

At the first glance you could believe that the
Sev
astopolskay
a
was uninhabited. No trace of army tents in the train station which served them as homes at most stations.

But instead they had barricades of sandbags, which looked like big ant hills in the weak lights of the lamps. Those barricades were never manned and the quadratic pillars were covered with a thick layer of dust. Everything was built so that a stranger that passed through would think this station was abandoned.

But as soon as the unwanted guest just thought about staying here he risked staying here forever. Then the machine-gun teams and the snipers, which stayed at the neighboring
Kav
ochskay
a
manned their posts in seconds and instead of the dim lamps, powerful quicksilver search lights on the ceiling were activated, burning the eyes of all invaders, humans or monster. Neither were used to the strong light.

The train station was the last carefully planned line of defense of the
Sev
astopolskay
a
. Their homes were located in the belly of this deceptive station – under the station. Under the enormous granite plate, invisible for stranger’s eyes, there was another floor not much smaller than the station above, but divided into smaller cells. There were the lit, dry and warm apartments, the steady humming air filters and water purifier, hydroponic greenhouses … It seemed that the residents of this station felt only safe and comfortable when they retreated further into the ground.

Homer knew that the crucial battle didn’t await him in the tunnel, but at home. While he walked through the narrow hallway past the half open doors of the former service rooms were now the families of the residents of the
Se
v
astopolskay
a
lived his steps slowed down more and more. He actually should’ve thought about his tactic again, revisited his answers, time was running out.

“What am I supposed to do? Orders are orders. You know how the situation is yourself. They didn’t even ask me.

Don’t blow it out of proportion – that is ridicules! No I didn’t volunteer. Refuse? Out of the question. That would be desertion, understand?”

He mumbled on and on, sometimes outraged and determent, sometimes gentle and pleading.

On the doorstep of his apartment he went over everything again. It seemed a scene wouldn’t be avoidable, but he wouldn’t back down. He made a dark look and opened the door ready for a fight.

From the nine and a half square meters apartment – very luxurious, he had waited for one for four years in some tent – was occupied by a two-story military bunk bed, a small neat dining table and another three big stacks of newspapers that reached to the ceiling. Would he have been an old
bachelor that mountain would have already buried him. But fifteen years ago he had met Yelena, who tolerated the dusty old paper in their small apartment, kept them in order and away from the stove; otherwise this mountain would have transformed itself into to a papery Pompeii long ago.

She also tolerated so many other things. The endless alarming parts from newspapers with titles like “The arms race goes on”, “Americans test anti-rocket system”, “Our rocket shield grows”, “Farewell to peace” and “The time for patience is over” that covered all of the walls like wallpaper; him staying all night hovering over a stack of notebooks, a gnawed on pen in his hand – using electrical light instead of candles, no option with all the newspaper around; his jesting nickname, that he carried with pride, but that evoked a joking smile by everyone else who said it.

She tolerated so much, but not everything. Nor his juvenile eagerness, that brought him into the middle of a storm every time only to see what it was like there – and that with almost 60 years! Nor the ease with what he accepts all the orders from above, without thinking about the last expedition that had almost cost his life.

If he had died … he didn’t want to think about it.

When Homer left for guard’s duty once a week she never stayed in the house. She fled with her troubled thoughts to the neighbors or went to work even if she didn’t had to – it didn’t matter where, everywhere was fine if it distracted her from thinking that her husband had already died, laying on the ground, dead and cold. She thought that his typical male composure regarding death was stupid, egoistic, yes even criminal.

Fate had wanted it that she had already returned from work to change her clothes. She had put her arms through the sleeves of her patched jacket when he entered. Her dark, slightly grayed hair – she hadn’t even turned 50 – was tousled and you could see fear in her brown eyes. “Kolya … did something happen? I thought you had guard duty till late in the night?”

His courage to start his argumentation dissolved immediately. Of course this time others were responsible, he could have said that they forced him, with clean consciences.

But now he hesitated. Maybe he should calm her down first and mention it later – casually – during dinner?

“I am asking just one thing from you: Don’t lie to me.”

She warned him, after she had seen his wandering eyes.

“Lena.” He started. “I have to tell you something …”

“Did somebody …“She asked the most important, most feared question right away. Did somebody die, but she didn’t speak it out loud, like if she feared that her words would make it happen.

“No! No …” Homer shook his head and added: “The freed me from guard duty. They are sending me to the
Serpuchov
skay
a
. Don’t think it will be dangerous”

“But …” Yelena didn’t know what to say. “But that is … Did they already return, the …”

“It is all nonsense.” He interrupted her hastily. “There is nothing”. The conversation turned into an unexpected direction. Instead dealing with curses that he is trying to play a hero and wait for a good moment of reconciliation, he now had to face a far harder test.

Yelena turned away, stepped to the table, put the salt from the table somewhere else and smoothed a wrinkle in the tablecloth. “I had a dream …” She stopped and cleared her throat.

“You always have one”

“A bad one” she said stubbornly. Then she started crying.

“What? What am I … It’s an order.” He stuttered and stroked over her fingers. He realized that his tirades weren’t worth a cent now.

“The one-eyed should go by himself!” She called out angrily and moved her hand away. “Oh that devil with his beret! He can only boss around others … What does he have to lose? He is married to his rifle! What does he know?”

When you made a women cry, the only thing left is to hold her in your arms. Homer was ashamed of himself, he was really sorry. But it was too easy to give in now, to swear that he won’t follow that order, to calm her down and dry her tears – and to remember this missed chance forever. Maybe the last chance in his long life.

So he remained silent.

It was time to gather the officers and give them further instructions. But the colonel was still sitting in his office. The cigarette smoke didn’t even bother him anymore but it still tempted him.

While the commander of the station moved his finger along the line of the
Sev
astopolskay
a
on his map of the Metro
and was whispering to himself sunken in thoughts, Denis Michailovitsch tried to understand what was behind Hunters mysterious return to the
Sev
astopolskay
a
. Why did he decide to settle down here and why did he wear his helmet in public almost all the time? That all meant that Istomin was right:

Hunter was hiding from something and he had chosen the southern guard post as his hiding place. There he replaced a complete brigade and had become irreplaceable. Whoever demanded his return, whatever price had been placed on his head, nor Istomin or the colonel would have given him up.

His hiding place was brilliant. There were no strangers at the
Sev
astopolskay
a
and compared to other caravans that traveled to the “big Metro” everyone passing through this station kept their tongue behind their teeth. In this small Sparta that desperately held on to their small piece of earth on the end of the world it was the most important thing to be reliable and relentless in battle. Here secrets still meant something.

But why did Hunter give all this up again? Why did he travel to Hanza out of his free will and risked being recognized? He had volunteered for this operation; Istomin wouldn’t have dared to think about appointing it to him. It probably wasn’t the fate of the lost recon unit that interested
the brigadier. He didn’t fight for the
Sev
astopolskay
a
because he loved the station so much, but because of his own reasons that were only known to him.

Maybe he had to fulfill an assignment? That would explain a lot of things: His sudden appearance, his secrecy, the stamina with which he held the guard post and of course his decision to leave for the
Serpuchov
skay
a
immediately.

But then why did he forbid him to inform
the others
?

Who could have sent him expect them?

No, that was impossible. He was one of the Order. A man who dozens, if not hundreds of people – including Denis Michailovitsch – owed their lives to wouldn’t be able to commit treason.

But was this Hunter that had appeared out of the void the same? If he worked for somebody did he receive a signal?

Did that mean that the disappearance of the recon unit was no accident but a well planned operation? And what part did the brigadier play in all of this?

The colonel shook his head strongly, as if he wanted to shake away his suspicions that hung on him like blood eels, getting bigger and bigger. Why would he think this about a man that saved his live? Hunter had served the station without making any mistakes and he had never given him the slightest
reason for doubts. Thus Denis Michailovitsch forbade himself to think about the brigadier as a deserter, spy or something else.