The Twilight Watch (29 page)

H
E DIDN'T OFTEN
dream.

And right now he wasn't even asleep. Even so, it was almost a
dream, almost like one of those sweet visions in the instant before
waking . . .

A light, pure vision, almost like a child's.

'Scavenging engines . . . key to start position . . .'

The silvery column of the rocket shrouded in light mist.

Flames dancing under the thruster nozzles.

Every Russian child dreams of being a cosmonaut – until he
hears that question for the tenth time: 'What do you want to be,
a cosmonaut?'

Some stop dreaming about outer space when they become Others.

The Twilight is more interesting than other planets. Their newly
discovered Power has a stronger gravitational pull than the fame
of a cosmonaut.

But now he was dreaming of a rocket – an absurd, old-fashioned
rocket rising up into the sky.

The Earth floating beneath his feet – or is it above his head?

The thick quartz glass of the porthole.

Strange dreams for an Other, surely?

The Earth . . . a veil of clouds . . . the lights of the cities . . . people.

Millions of them. Billions.

And him – watching them from orbit.

An Other in space . . . what could be more ludicrous? Except
maybe Other versus Alien. He had watched a science fiction film
once, and suddenly found himself thinking that now was just the
right moment for brave Ripley to slip into the Twilight – and
then strike out and smash those unwieldy, helpless monsters.

The thought immediately made him laugh.

There weren't any Others up there.

But space
was
up there. Only he hadn't realised what it was for
until now.

Now he understood.

He closed his eyes, dreaming about the small Earth rotating
slowly under his feet.

Every child dreams of being a giant – until he starts to wonder
what the point is.

Now he knew everything.

The parts of the jigsaw all fitted together.

His own destiny as an Other.

His crazy dream about space travel.

And the thick volume bound in human skin, its pages covered
with neat cursive handwriting.

He picked up the book that was lying on the floorboards.

Opened it at the first page.

The letters had not faded. They were protected by a light but
effective magic spell.

This language had not been heard on Earth for a long time. It
would have reminded an Indologist of Sanskrit, but only a very
few people would have known it was Paishachi.

But Others can read any dead language.

May the Elephant-Faced One preserve you, swaying his head
first up, then down, like unto Shiva, swaying up and down
on Mind! May Ganapati fill me with the sweet moisture of
wisdom!

My name is Fuaran, I am a woman of the glorious city of
Kanakapuri.

The Fulfiller of Desires, husband of Parvati, rewarded me
generously in the days of my youth, granting me the ability
to walk in the world of phantoms. While in our world a petal
swirls in the air as it falls from a blossoming tree, in that
world a whole day passes – such is its nature. And a great
power lies concealed in that world.

He closed the
Fuaran
.

His heart was pounding.

A great power!

A power that had fallen from a witch's hands and disappeared
almost two thousand years ago.

Owned by no one, concealed even from the Others.

Nobody's Power.

I
DROVE UP
to the Night Watch building shortly after seven in
the morning. The deadest time of all – the break between shifts.
The field operatives who have been on night duty have handed
in their reports and gone home and, following established Moscow
tradition, the headquarters staff won't show up before nine.

They were changing shifts in the guard room too. The guards
on their way out were signing some papers, those who had just
arrived were studying the duty roster. I shook hands with all of
them and walked through without any of the required checks.
Strictly speaking, that was a breach of regulations . . . although
this guard-post was primarily intended for checking ordinary
people.

On the third floor the guards had already changed shifts. Garik
was on duty and he made no exception for me, inspecting me
through the Twilight and nodding for me to touch his amulet: an
intricate image of a cockerel made out of gold wire. We called it
'Greetings to Dodon' after the king in Pushkin's fairy tale – in
theory, if a Dark One touched the amulet, the cockerel would
crow. Some wits claimed that if it sensed a Dark One, the cock
would say in a human voice: 'How repulsive!'

Garik waited until he was done before giving me a friendly
smile and shaking my hand.

'Is Gesar in his office?' I asked.

'Who knows where he is?' Garik replied.

He was right, that really was a stupid question. Higher Magicians
move in mysterious ways.

'I thought you were supposed to be on leave . . .' Garik said.
My strange question seemed to have put him on his guard.

'I got fed up relaxing. Like they say, Monday begins on Saturday
. . .'

'And you look absolutely exhausted . . .' he went on, growing
even more wary. 'Okay, come on . . . stroke the amulet again.'

I sent another greeting to Dodon, then stood still for a while
as Garik checked my aura with another ingenious amulet made
out of coloured glass.

'Sorry about that,' he said as he put the amulet away, adding in
a slightly embarrassed voice: 'You're not yourself today.'

'I was on holiday in the country with Sveta, and a very old
witch turned up,' I explained. 'And there was a pack of werewolves
getting a bit out of hand. I had to go after the werewolves, and
go after the witch . . .' I gestured despairingly. 'After a holiday like
that I should be on sick leave.'

'So that's it,' said Garik, calming down. 'Put in an application,
I think we still have some of our quota left for restoring powers.'

I shuddered and shook my head.

'No thanks. I'll manage on my own.'

After I said goodbye to Garik, I went up to the fourth floor. I
stood outside Gesar's reception for a while, then knocked.

No one answered, and I went in.

The secretary wasn't at her desk, of course. The door into Gesar's
office was firmly closed. But the little 'ready' light was blinking
cheerfully on the coffee-maker, the computer was switched on
and even the television was muttering away quietly on the news
channel. The anchorman was reporting that another sandstorm
had impeded the American forces in yet another peace-making
mission, overturning several tanks and even bringing down two
planes.

'And it beat up all the soldiers and took several of them prisoner
too,' I couldn't resist adding.

What was this strange habit some Others had of watching TV?
Either idiotic soap operas or the lies on the news. There was really
only one word for it – 'people' . . .

Maybe the other word was 'cattle'?
But it isn't their fault. They are weak and divided. They are
people, not cattle.

We
are the cattle.

And people are the grass.

I stood there, leaning against the secretary's desk and looking
out of the window at the clouds drifting over the city. Why was
the sky so low in Moscow in summer? I'd never seen such low
clouds anywhere else . . . except maybe for Moscow in winter . . .

'You can cut grass,' a voice said behind my back. 'Or you can
tear it up by the roots. Which do you prefer?'

'Good morning, boss,' I said, turning round. 'I didn't think you
were in.'

Gesar yawned. He was wearing slippers and a dressing-gown. I
caught a glimpse of his pyjamas underneath it.

I would never have expected the Great Gesar to wear pyjamas
covered with pictures of Disney cartoon characters. From Mickey
Mouse and Donald Duck to Lilo and Stitch. How could a Great
Magician, who had lived thousands of years and could read thoughts
with such ease, wear pyjamas like that?

'I was sleeping,' Gesar said glumly. 'Sleeping peacefully. I went
to bed at five.'

'Sorry, boss,' I said. Somehow, no other word but 'boss' came to
mind. 'Was there a lot of work last night?'

'I was reading a book, an interesting one,' said Gesar, pressing
switches on the coffee-maker. 'Black with sugar for me, milk and
no sugar for you . . .'

'Something magical?' I enquired.

'No, dammit, Golovachev!' Gesar growled. 'When I retire I'm
going to ask to be his co-author and write books! Take your
coffee.'

I took the cup and followed Gesar into his office.

As usual, several new knick-knacks had appeared. In one
cupboard there were lots of little figures of mice made of glass,
tin and wood, ceramic goblets and steel knives. Propped up against
the back wall of the cupboard was an old Civil Defense brochure
with a photograph on its cover of a committee judging volunteers
folding parachutes, and beside it there was a simple lithograph
showing a green forest thicket.

For some reason – I couldn't understand exactly why – it all
brought to mind the early years of school.

And hanging from the ceiling was a gold-coloured ice hockey
helmet that looked exactly like a bald head. There were several
darts stuck into it.

I glanced suspiciously at all these items, which might mean
something very important, or absolutely nothing at all, and sat
down in one of the visitors' chairs. I noticed a book with a bright
cover lying in the wire-mesh wastepaper basket. Could Gesar really
have been reading Golovachev? Taking a closer look I realised I
was mistaken – the title of the book was
Masterpieces of World Science
Fiction
.

'Drink your coffee, it cleans out the brain in the morning,'
Gesar muttered in the same tone of annoyance. As he drank his
own coffee, he slurped. I almost thought that if I gave him a saucer
and some sugar lumps he'd start drinking it that way – straight
from the saucer . . .

'I need answers to some questions, boss,' I said. 'A lot of questions.'

'You'll get them,' Gesar said with a nod.

'Others are much weaker magically than ordinary people.'

Gesar frowned.

'Nonsense. An oxymoron.'

'But isn't the magical Power of human beings . . .'

Gesar raised one finger and wagged it at me.

'Stop right there. Don't confuse potential energy and kinetic
energy.'

Now it was my turn to keep quiet, while Gesar strode round
the office with his coffee mug, pontificating in a leisurely fashion.

'First . . .Yes, all living things are capable of producing magical
Power. All living things – not only human beings. Even animals,
or grass. Is there any physical basis to this Power, can it be measured
with a scientific instrument? I don't know. Possibly nobody
ever will know. Second . . . No one can control their own Power.
It dissipates into space and is absorbed by the Twilight, part is
caught by the blue moss and part is intercepted by Others. Is that
clear? There are two processes – the emission of your own Power
and the absorption of Power that is not yours. The first process is
involuntary and intensifies as you go deeper into the Twilight. The
second is also, to a greater or lesser degree, typical of everybody
– both human beings and Others. A sick child asks his mother:
sit with me, rub my tummy! His mother strokes his tummy, and
the pain goes away. The mother wants to help her child, and she
is able to direct part of her Power to produce the desired effect.
So-called psychics – human beings with truncated, castrated Other
abilities – are not only able to influence people who are near and
dear to them in a spontaneous outpouring of heightened emotion,
but can heal other people or even put a curse on them. The Power
that flows from them is more structured. No longer steam, but
not yet ice – it's water. Third . . .We are Others. In us the balance
of emission and absorption is displaced towards absorption.'

'What?' I exclaimed.

'Did you think it was all simple, like with vampires?' Gesar asked
with an ironic smile. 'Do you think Others only take, without
giving anything in exchange? No, we all give back the Power that
we produce. But while an ordinary person's process of absorption
and emission is in dynamic equilibrium, and the balance is occasionally
disrupted as a result of emotional agitation, with us it's
different. We are unbalanced from the very beginning. We absorb
more from the surrounding world than we give back.'

'And we can juggle the remainder,' I said. 'Right?'

'We operate with the difference in potentials,' said Gesar, wagging
his finger at me again. 'It doesn't matter what your "magical
temperature" is – that was the term the witches used to use. You
can actually generate a great deal of Power, and the rate at which
it is emitted will increase in geometrical progression. There are
Others like that . . . they give more back to the common pot than
people do, but they also absorb very actively. They work on that
difference in potentials.'

After a moment's pause, Gesar added a self-critical comment:

'But those are only rare cases, I admit. Far more often Others
are less capable of producing magical Power than ordinary people,
but equally or even more capable of absorbing it. We're not just
crude vampires. We're donors too.'

'But why don't they teach us that?' I asked. 'Why?'

'Because in the most basic understanding of the process, we do,
after all, consume Power that comes from someone else!' Gesar
barked. 'Why did you come barging in here at such an early hour?
To rant and rave and lecture me! How can this be true, that we
simply consume the Power produced by people! And you have
actually taken it directly, pumped it out, like a genuine vampire!
When it was necessary, you didn't think twice. Off you went, in
shining white armour, with sadness writ large on your noble
visage! And behind you little children were crying!'
^*

^*
See
The Night Watch
, Story Three

He was right, of course. Partly.

But I had already worked in the Watch for long enough to
know that a partial truth is also a lie.

'Teacher . . .' I said in a low voice, and Gesar started.

I had refused to be his pupil any more on that day when I
gathered power from people.

'I'm listening, pupil,' he said, looking into my eyes.

'Surely it's not a question of how much Power we consume,
but how much we give back,' I said. 'Teacher, isn't the goal of the
Night Watch to divide and protect?'

Gesar nodded.

'To divide and protect until such time as people's morals improve
and new Others will only turn to the Light?'

Gesar nodded again.

'And all people will become Others?'

'Rubbish.' Gesar shook his head. 'Whoever told you such
nonsense? Can you find that phrase anywhere in even one of the
Watches' documents? In the Great Treaty?'

I closed my eyes and looked at the words that sprang into view.

'We are Others . . .'

'No, it doesn't say that anywhere,' I admitted. 'But all our
training, everything we do . . . it's all set up to create precisely that
impression.'

'That impression is false.'

'Yes, but the self-deception is encouraged.'

Gesar heaved a deep sigh. He looked into my eyes. And said:

'Anton, everyone needs their life to have a meaning. A higher
meaning. Both people and Others. Even if that meaning is false.'

'But it's a blind alley . . .' I whispered. 'Teacher, it's a blind alley.
If we defeat the Dark Ones . . .'

'Then we'll defeat Evil. Egotism, selfishness, indifference.'

'But our own existence is egotism and selfishness too!'

'What do you suggest?' Gesar enquired politely.

I didn't answer.

'Do you have any objections to raise against the operational
work of the Watches? Against monitoring the Dark Ones? Against
helping people, and attempting to improve the social system?'

I suddenly realised how I could strike back.

'Teacher, what exactly did you give Arina in 1931? When you
met her near the racetrack?'

'A piece of Chinese silk,' Gesar replied calmly. 'She's a woman,
after all, she wanted beautiful clothes . . . and those were hard
times. A friend of mine sent me the silk from Manchuria, and I
couldn't really think what to do with it . . . Do you blame me?'

I nodded.

'Anton, I was opposed to wide-scale experimentation on human
beings from the very beginning,' Gesar said, with obvious disgust.
'It was a foolish idea that had been kicking around since the nineteenth
century. No wonder the Dark Ones agreed. It didn't bring
any positive changes at all. Just more blood, war, famine, repression
. . .'

He stopped speaking, jerked the drawer of his desk open with
a crash and took out a cigar.

'But Russia would have been a prosperous country now . . .' I
began.

'Bla-bla-bla . . .' Gesar shot back. 'Not Russia, the Eurasian
Union. A prosperous social-democratic state. Vying with the Asian
Union, led by China, and the Conference of English-Speaking
Countries, led by the United States. Five or six local nuclear
conflicts every year . . . on the territory of Third World countries.
A struggle for resources, an arms race far worse than what we
have now . . .'