Night Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  I nodded.

  “Okay. You’ve explained your position. I don’t agree with it.”

  “Officially?”

  “No. In a private capacity. And as a private individual I believe I have the right of opposition.”

  “Opposition? To Gesar?” Olga’s eyes opened wide, and the corners of her lips curved up in a smile. “Anton!”

  I turned on my heel and went out.

  Yes, it was laughable.

  Yes, it was absurd.

  It wasn’t just a crazy project dreamed up by Gesar and Olga. It wasn’t just an attempt to repeat a failed experiment. It was a meticulously prepared operation, planned over a long period of time, and it had been my bad luck to get caught up in it.

  An operation approved at the highest level.

  Approved by the Light.

  Why was I getting so involved? I had no right to be. None at all. And I had no chance either. Absolutely none. I could console myself with the wise parable about the grain of sand that stopped the clock, but right now I was a grain of sand caught between mill wheels.

  And the saddest thing of all was that these were friendly and caring mill wheels. Nobody would persecute me. Nobody would fight against me. They’d simply stop me doing all those stupid things that wouldn’t do any good in any case.

  Then why did I feel this pain, this unendurable pain in my chest?

  I was standing on the terrace, clenching my fists in impotent fury, when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Looks like you’ve managed to figure something out, Anton?”

  I glanced at Semyon and nodded.

  “Hard to take?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Then just remember one thing, please. You’re not just a grain of sand. Nobody’s just a grain of sand. Especially if he’s an Other.”

  “How long do you have to live to be able to guess what someone else is thinking like that?”

  “A hundred years, Anton.”

  “So Gesar can read any of us like an open book?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll have to learn how not to think,” I said.

  “For that you have to learn how to think first. Did you know there’s been a ruckus in town?”

  “When?”

  “A quarter of an hour ago. It’s all over already.”

  “And what happened?”

  “A courier arrived to see the boss, from somewhere in the East. The Dark Ones tracked him and tried to eliminate him. Right there in front of the boss.” Semyon laughed.

  “That means war!”

  “No, they were within their rights. The courier entered the city illegally.”

  I looked around. Nobody was in any hurry to go anywhere. They weren’t starting up their cars or packing their things. Ignat and Ilya were heating up the barbecue again.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting back?”

  “No. The boss handled things his own way. There was a small fight, without any casualties. The courier’s been made a member of our Watch, and the Dark Ones had to leave empty-handed. The restaurant suffered a bit, that’s all.”

  “What restaurant?”

  “The restaurant where the boss met the courier,” Semyon explained patiently. “We’ve been told we can continue with our vacation.”

  I looked up at the blindingly blue sky, swelling with the heat.

  “You know, somehow I’m not in the mood for a vacation. I think I’ll go back to Moscow. I don’t suppose anyone will mind too much?”

  “Of course not.”

  Semyon took out his cigarettes and lit up. Then he said casually:

  “In your place, I’d find out exactly what the courier brought with him from the East. Maybe that’s your chance.”

  I laughed bitterly.

  “The Dark Ones couldn’t find out. Are you suggesting I should start rummaging in the boss’s safe?”

  “The Dark Ones couldn’t take it. Whatever it was. You have no right to take what the courier brought or even touch it, of course. But just finding out . . .”

  “Thanks. I really mean that.”

  Semyon nodded, accepting my gratitude without any false modesty.

  “We’ll settle up in the Twilight. You know, I’ve had enough of vacation too. After lunch I’m going to borrow Tiger Cub’s motorcycle and go back to town. Can I give you a lift?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I felt ashamed. It was the kind of shame probably only Others can feel. We can always tell whenever someone’s helping us out, when they’re giving us something we don’t deserve but can’t possibly refuse.

  I couldn’t stay there any longer. Stay there and see Svetlana, Olga, and Ignat. Listen to their truth.

  I would always have my own truth.

  “Can you handle a motorcycle?” I asked, trying clumsily to change the subject.

  “I rode one in the first Paris–Dakar rally. Let’s go give the guys a hand.”

  I glanced sullenly at Ignat. He was chopping wood, handling the axe like a real virtuoso. After every blow he froze for a moment and looked around quickly at everyone, flexing his biceps.

  He really loved himself. Sure, he loved the rest of the world too. But he came first.

  “Let’s do that,” I agreed. I swung my arm back and hurled the sign of the triple blade through the Twilight. Several blocks of wood flew apart into neat sticks of firewood just as Ignat had raised his axe for the next blow. He lost his balance and almost fell. Then he started looking around.

  Naturally, my blow had left a spatial trace. The twilight was vibrating, greedily drawing in energy.

  “Antosha, what did you do that for?” Ignat asked in an offended voice. “What for? That’s not the sporting way!”

  “But it is efficient,” I said, walking down from the terrace. “Shall I chop some more?”

  “Don’t bother,” said Ignat, bending down to collect up the firewood. “Carry on like that and we’ll end up grilling the kebabs with fireballs.”

  I didn’t feel at all guilty, but I started helping anyway. The firewood had been chopped cleanly and the cuts glittered a rich amber yellow. It seemed a shame to put something so beautiful on the fire.

  Then I looked at the house and saw Olga standing in the ground-floor window.

  She’d been following my little escapade very seriously. Far too seriously.

  I waved to her.

  CHAPTER 5

  TIGER CUB’S MOTORCYCLE WAS REALLY GOOD, IF THAT VAGUE word can ever be applied to a Harley, even the simplest model. After all, there are motorcycles, and then there are Harley-Davidsons.

  Why Tiger Cub needed it, I couldn’t tell. As far as I could see, she only rode it once or twice a year. Probably for the same reason she needed a huge house on the weekends. In any case, we arrived back in town before it was even two in the afternoon.

  Semyon handled the heavy two-wheeled vehicle like a master. I could never have done it, not even if I’d activated the “extreme skills” implanted in my memory and reviewed the reality lines. I could have got there almost as fast by expending a considerable portion of my reserves of Power. But Semyon simply drove—and his superiority over an ordinary human driver was because of nothing but his great experience.

  Even riding at a hundred kilometers an hour the air still felt hot. The wind lashed at my cheeks like a hot, rough towel. It felt like we were riding through a furnace, an endless asphalt furnace full of vehicles that had already been roasted in the sun and were slowly crawling along. At least three times I was sure we were going to crash into a car or an inconveniently sited pillar.

  It wasn’t likely that we’d be killed outright. The other guys would sense what had happened and come and put us back together, piece by piece, but it wouldn’t exactly be fun.

  We arrived without any mishaps. After the Ring Road Semyon used his magic about five times, but only to make the highway patrolmen look the other way.

  Semyon didn’t ask my address, even though he’d never been to my place
. He stopped outside the door of the building and switched off the engine. The young teens swilling cheap beer in the little kids’ playground stopped talking and stared at the bike. How great it must be to have such clear and simple dreams: beer, ecstasy at the discotheque, a hot girlfriend, and a Harley to ride.

  “How long have you been having premonitions?” Semyon asked.

  I started. I hadn’t really told anyone that I’d been having them.

  “Quite a long time now.”

  Semyon nodded. He looked up at my windows. He didn’t tell me why he’d asked the question.

  “Maybe I ought to go up with you?”

  “Listen, I’m not your date who needs to be seen to her door.”

  The magician smiled.

  “Hey, don’t get me confused with Ignat. Okay, it’s not such a big deal. Be careful.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything, I suppose.”

  The bike’s engine howled. The magician shook his head.

  “There’s something coming, Anton. Coming this way. Be careful.”

  He zoomed off to roars of approval from the adolescents, and slipped neatly through the gap between a parked Volga and a slow-moving Zhiguli. I watched him go and shook my head. I didn’t need any premonitions to know that Semyon would spend the whole day zooming round Moscow. Then he’d attach himself to some group of bikers, and a quarter of an hour later he’d be a fully fledged member, already creating legends about a crazy old biker.

  Be careful . . .

  Of what?

  And more important, what for?

  I tapped the code into the lock, walked into the entrance, and called the elevator. That morning I’d been on vacation with my friends, and everything had been fine.

  Nothing had changed now, except that I wasn’t there any longer.

  They say that when Light Magicians go off the rails, the first sign is always flashes of insight, like the ones epileptics have before a fit. Then the pointless use of power, like killing flies with fireballs and chopping firewood with combat spells. Quarrels with the people they love. Sudden disagreements with some friends and equally unexpected warm relations with others. Everyone knows that, and everyone knows what happens after a Light Magician goes off the rails.

  Be careful . . .

  I walked up to the door and reached for my keys.

  But the door was already unlocked.

  My parents had a set of keys. But they would never have come all the way from Saratov without giving me any warning. And I would have sensed that they were coming.

  No ordinary human thief would ever break into my apartment; the simple sign on the threshold would have stopped him. And there were barriers against Others too. Of course, they could be overcome with sufficient Power. But the sentry systems ought to have been triggered!

  I stood there, looking at the narrow crack between the door and the doorjamb, the crack that shouldn’t have been there. I looked through the Twilight, but I didn’t see anything.

  I didn’t have a weapon with me. The pistol was in the apartment. So were the ten combat amulets.

  I could have followed instructions. A member of the Night Watch who discovers that a home secured by magical means has been penetrated by strangers must first inform the duty operations officer and his supervisor, and then . . .

  But the moment I imagined appealing to Gesar, after he’d casually scattered the entire Day Watch only two days earlier, I lost any desire to follow instructions. I folded my fingers into the sign for a rapid “freeze” spell, probably because I remembered how well it had worked for Semyon.

  Be careful?

  I pushed open the door and walked into the apartment that had suddenly stopped being mine.

  And as I walked in, I realized who had enough power, authority, and sheer effrontery to come calling without an invitation.

  “Good afternoon, boss!” I said, glancing into the study.

  I wasn’t entirely mistaken.

  Zabulon was sitting in a chair by the window, reading. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and put down the newspaper Arguments and Facts. Then he carefully took off his spectacles with the slim gold frames.

  “Good afternoon, Anton. You know, I’d be very glad to be your boss.”

  He smiled. A Dark Magician beyond classification, the head of the Moscow Day Watch. As usual, he was wearing an immaculately tailored black suit and a light-gray shirt. An Other of indeterminate age with a lean frame and close-cropped hair.

  “My mistake,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  Zabulon shrugged:

  “Take your amulet. It’s in the desk somewhere, I can sense it.”

  I walked over to the desk, opened the drawer, and took out the ivory medallion on a copper chain. I squeezed the amulet in my fist and felt it growing warm.

  “Zabulon, you no longer have any power over me.”

  The Dark Magician nodded:

  “Good. I don’t want you to feel any doubts about your own safety.”

  “What are you doing in a Light One’s home, Zabulon? I would be within my rights to report you to the Tribunal.”

  “I know,” Zabulon said with a shrug. “I know all that. I’m in the wrong. This is stupid. I’m exposing myself to reprisals and exposing the Day Watch too. But I haven’t come to you as an enemy.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “And you don’t need to worry about any observation devices,” Zabulon added casually. “Either your own, or the ones that the Inquisition installs. I took the liberty of, shall we say, putting them to sleep. Everything we say to each other will remain just between the two of us forever.”

  “Believe half of what a human says, a quarter of what a Light One says, and not a word of what a Dark One says,” I muttered.

  “Of course, you have every right not to trust me. It’s your duty not to! But please hear me out.” Zabulon suddenly smiled in a remarkably open and reassuring fashion. “You’re a Light One. You are obliged to help everyone who asks for help, even me. And now I’m asking.”

  I hesitated, then went across to the couch and sat down. Without taking my shoes off, without canceling the suspended “freeze,” as if it weren’t totally absurd to imagine myself doing combat with Zabulon.

  There was an outsider in my apartment. So much for “my home is my castle”—and I’d almost started to believe it during the years I’d been working in the Watch.

  “First of all, how did you get in?” I asked.

  “First of all, I took a perfectly ordinary lock pick, but . . .”

  “Zabulon, you know what I mean. The sentry systems can be destroyed, but they can’t be tricked. They should have been triggered by any unauthorized entry.”

  The Dark Magician sighed.

  “Kostya helped me to get in. You gave him access.”

  “I hoped he was my friend. Even if he is a vampire.”

  “He is your friend,” Zabulon said with a smile. “And he wants to help you.”

  “In his own way.”

  “In our own way, Anton. I’ve entered your home, but I have no intention of causing any harm. I haven’t looked at any of the official documents you keep here. I haven’t left any monitoring signs. I came to talk.”

  “Then talk.”

  “You and I have a problem, Anton. The same one. And today it reached critical proportions.”

  The moment I saw Zabulon, I’d known what we’d be talking about, so I just nodded.

  “Good, you understand.” The Dark Magician leaned forward in his chair and sighed. “Anton, I’m not under any illusions here. We see the world differently. And we understand our duty in different ways. But even under those conditions our interests sometimes coincide. From your point of view, we Dark Ones have our failings. Sometimes our actions seem rather ambiguous. And we are obliged by our very nature to be rather less caring with people. That’s all true. But note that nobody has ever accused us of attempting to change the entire destiny of humanity. Since the Treaty
was concluded we have simply lived our own lives and we’d like you to do the same.”

  “Nobody has ever accused you,” I agreed. “Because whichever way you look at it, time is on your side.”

  Zabulon nodded:

  “And what does that mean? Perhaps we’re more like human beings? Perhaps we’re right? But let’s not get into those arguments; there’s no end to them. I repeat what I have said before. We honor the Treaty. And we often observe it far more closely than the forces of Light.”

  A standard tactic in an argument. First admit to some kind of generalized guilt. Then gently reproach your opponent with being equally guilty of the same general kind of fault. Reproach them a bit and then drop it. Let’s just forget the whole thing!

  And then move on to what’s really important.

  “But let’s deal with what’s really important here,” said Zabulon, getting serious. “There’s no point in beating about the bush. In the last hundred years the forces of Light have launched three global experiments. The revolution in Russia. The Second World War. And now this new project. Following the same scenario.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I suddenly had this desperate, aching feeling in my chest.

  “Really? Let me explain. Social models are developed that should eventually—at the cost of massive upheavals and immense bloodshed—create the ideal society. Ideal, that is, from your point of view, but I won’t argue about that! Certainly not. Everyone has a right to his own dream. But your path is so very cruel . . .” Another sad smile. “You accuse us of cruelty, and not entirely without reason, but what’s one child killed in a black mass compared with any fascist children’s concentration camp? And fascism was another of your inventions. Another one that got out of control. First there was internationalism and communism—those didn’t work. Then there was national socialism. Another mistake? You put your heads together and examined the result. Then you sighed, wiped the slates clean, and started experimenting all over again.”

  “They turned out to be mistakes thanks to your efforts.”