The Power was still raging inside me. The Power of a thousand Others, transmitted to me by Gesar and Zabulon, a boundless flood of Power, seeking a use, a point of application. Human Power that came to me at third hand…
Enough…
I brought my palms together, crumpling the gray threads into a heavy ball.
Enough…
There was no enemy here any more.
Enough…
A duel of magicians is fencing, not flailing with a clumsy club.
Enough.
Kostya had proved more skillful.
I was trembling violently-but I stopped myself. The sky took on a blue color again, the plane on the runway picked up speed.
Kostya had gone.
Had he turned and run?
No, simply gone. I'd never heard of vampires capable of creating a direct portal. And it looked like the Higher Ones hadn't expected Kostya to pull an incredible stunt like that either.
He'd come to the airport, knowing that everyone would start thinking about planes and helicopters and relax, sure that there was still some time left. A vampire could be intercepted in midair, you could send up the jet fighters, you could zap him with a missile.
But he'd had the direct portal ready in advance. An hour and a half before the launch-he wouldn't have had time to get there by plane. And they wouldn't have let a plane anywhere near Baikonur-whatever they might be like now, the air defense forces still existed. That was why he'd been able to make the jump, even under pressure from the Gray Prayer-the spell for the portal had been hanging there, ready for use, like the combat spells of a field operations magician.
That meant he hadn't believed I would go over to his side. Or at least he'd had serious doubts. But it had been important to him, very important, to defeat me, not by pure Power-what could Power prove, when he was already a Higher Vampire, and I was still a second-level magician, even if I was pumped full of borrowed Power? The most complete and convincing victory is when your opponent admits that you're right. And surrenders without a fight. Accepts your banner as his own.
I'd been really stupid. I'd thought of him as either a friend or an enemy. But he was neither. All he'd wanted to do was prove that he was right. And I just happened to be the target he'd chosen for proving that. No longer a friend, not yet an enemy. Simply the bearer of a different truth.
"Did he teleport?" Las asked.
"What?" I swung around and looked at him. "Well… something of the sort. He opened a portal and got away through it. How did you understand that?"
"I saw something that looked like that in this computer game…" Las said uncertainly. Then he added indignantly, "A lot like that, in fact!"
"People aren't the only ones who can design games…" I explained. "Yes, he got away. He's gone to Baikonur. He wants to take the space tourist's place…"
"I heard," said Las. "What a lamebrain."
"Do you understand why he's a lamebrain?" I asked.
Las snorted. "If all the people become magicians… Today they insult you in the trolley, tomorrow they'll incinerate you on the spot. Today they scratch their neighbor's door with a nail if they don't like him, or write an anonymous letter to the tax office, but tomorrow they'll hex him or suck all his blood out. A monkey on a motorbike is only good in a circus, not on the city streets… And especially if the monkey's got a machine gun."
"You think the monkeys are in the majority?" I asked.
"We're all monkeys."
"You're headed for the Watch," I muttered. "Hang on, I'll ask for advice."
"What Watch?" Las asked cautiously. "Thanks a bunch, but I'm not a magician, thank God!"
I closed my eyes and listened. Silence.
"Gesar!"
Silence.
"Gesar! Teacher!"
"We were in conference, Anton."
In mind conversations, there are no inflexions of the voice. But even so… even so I thought I caught a hint of weariness in Gesar's words.
"He went to Baikonur. The Fuaran really works. He wants to turn everybody on the planet into Others."
I stopped, because I realized Gesar already knew. He'd seen and heard everything that happened-through my eyes and ears, or by using some other magical method, it wasn't important how.
"You have to stop him, Anton. Go after him and stop him."
"And you?"
"We're keeping the channel open, Anton. Supplying you with Power. Do you know how many Others provided Power for the Gray Prayer?"
"I can imagine."
"Anton, I can't handle him. And Zabulon can't handle him. Or Svetlana. The only thing we can do now is feed Power to you. We're drawing Power from all the Others in Moscow. If necessary, we'll start taking it directly from people. There's no time to regroup and use different magicians as channels. You have to stop Kostya… with our help. The alternative is a nuclear strike at Baikonur."
"I won't be able to open a direct portal, Gesar."
"Yes you will. The portal still hasn't closed completely, you need to find the opening and reactivate it."
"Gesar, don't overestimate me. Even with your Power, I'm still a second-level magician!"
"Anton, use your head. You were standing in front of Saushkin when he recited the spell. You're not second-level any longer."
"Then what level am I?"
"There's only one level above first-Higher Magician. Enough talking, get after him!"
"But how am I going to defeat him?"
"Any way you like."
I opened my eyes.
Las was standing in front of me and waving his hand in front of my face.
"Oh! Still alive!" he said, delighted. "So what is this Watch? And do you mean to say I'm a magician too now?"
"Almost." I took a step forward.
This was where Kostya had been standing… he fell… parted his hands… the portal appeared.
In the human world-nothing.
Just the wind blowing, the crumpled cellophane cover from a pack of cigarettes rustling over the concrete…
In the Twilight-nothing.
Gray gloom, stone monoliths instead of buildings, the rustling tendrils of the blue moss…
In the second layer of the Twilight.
Dense, leaden mist… a dead, spectral light from behind heavy clouds… a small blue spark where the portal had been…
I reached out my hand- in the human world,
in the first level of the Twilight,
in the second level of the Twilight…
And I caught the fading blue spark in my fingers.
Wait. Don't go out. Here's Power for you-a raging torrent of energy, rupturing the boundary between worlds. Streaming from my fingers in drops of fire-onto the fading embers…
Grow, unfold, creep out into the bright light of day-there's still work for you to do! I can sense the trace left by the one who opened the portal. I can see how he did it. I'll be able to follow his path.
And I don't even need any incantations-all those funny formulas in obscure ancient languages-just as the witch Arina didn't need them when she brewed her potions, just as Gesar and Svetlana don't need them.
So this is what it's like to be a Higher Magician!
Not to learn formulas by heart, but to feel the movement of Power!
How incredible… and how simple.
It wasn't just a matter of new abilities, of a fireball with increased casualty capability or a more powerful Freeze. If he's pumped full of Power from outside or has accumulated a large reserve of his own, any ordinary magician can lash out hard enough to make a Higher Magician feel it. It was a matter of freedom. Like the difference between even the most talented swimmer and the laziest dolphin.
How difficult it must have been for Svetlana to live with me, forgetting about her Power, about her freedom. This wasn't just the difference between strength and weakness-it was the difference between a healthy person and an invalid.
But ordinary people managed to live, didn't they? And they lived with th
e blind and the paralyzed. Because, after all, freedom was not the most important thing. Freedom was the excuse used by scoundrels and fools. When they said "freedom," they weren't thinking about other people's freedom, only about their own bondage.
And even Kostya, who was neither a fool nor a scoundrel, had been caught on the same hook that had torn the lips of revolutionaries of every breed-from Spartacus to Trotsky, from Citizen Robespierre to Comandante Che Guevara, from Emelyan Pugachev to the Unknown Soldier.
Surely I would have been caught on it myself? Ten or even five years earlier?
If someone had told me, "You can change everything at a single stroke-and for the better?"
Perhaps I'd been lucky.
At least with the people I'd had around me, who had always shaken their heads in doubt at the words "freedom and equality."
The portal opened up in front of me-a blue prism with glowing filaments, a glittering, faceted membrane…
I parted the filaments with my hands and entered.
Chapter 7
The bad thing about portals is that there's no way to prepare yourself for what's at the other end. In this sense a train is ideal. You go into your compartment, change your trousers for track-suit bottoms and your shoes for rubber sandals, take out your food and drink, and get to know your traveling companions- if you happen to be traveling on your own, that is. The wheels drum on the rails, the platform slips away. And that's it, you're on your way. You're a different person. You share your most intimate experiences with strangers, you argue about politics, although you swore you never would again, you drink the dubious vodka bought at one of the stops. You're neither here nor there. You're on your way. You're on your own little quest, and there's a bit of Frodo Baggins in you, and a bit of Verne's Paganel, and just a tiny drop of Robinson Crusoe, and a smidgeon of Radishchev. Maybe your journey will only last a few hours, or maybe a few days. It's a big country slipping past the windows of your compartment. You're not there. You're not here. You're a traveler.
A plane is a bit different. But you still prepare yourself for the journey. You buy a ticket, you wake up at first light, get into a taxi and drive to the airport. The wheels measure out the miles, but you're already looking up at the sky; in your mind you're already there, in the plane. The nervous hassle of the airport lounge, instant coffee in the buffet, the baggage check, the security check and-if you're leaving the country- the customs and the duty-free shop, all the small joys of travel before the narrow seats in the plane, the roar of the turbines and the optimistic gabble of the air hostess: "The emergency exits are located…" And then the ground has already fallen away, the seatbelt signs have been switched off, the smokers have snuck off guiltily to the restrooms and the hostesses have considerately ignored them, the meal in the plastic tray is handed out-for some reason on planes everyone stuffs themselves. It's not exactly a journey. It's a relocation. But you still see the cities and rivers drifting past and leaf through a guidebook or check the bookings for your business trip, wondering about the best way to handle the business negotiations, or the best way to enjoy a ten-day tourist trip to hospitable Turkey-Spain-Croatia. And you're on your way.
But a portal is a shock. A portal is a sudden change of scenery, a revolving stage in a theater. You're here, then you're there. No journey.
And no time to think about anything either.
… I tumbled out of the portal. One foot struck a tiled floor, the other went straight into a toilet bowl.
At least it was a perfectly clean toilet bowl. Like in a respectable American film, where the characters waste each other in the John. But anyway, I pulled my foot back out, wincing in pain as I did so.
A tiny cubicle with a little lamp and a grille on the ceiling and a roll of toilet tissue on a holder. A fine portal this was! Somehow I'd been expecting Kostya to run it straight to the launch pad, close to the foot of the rocket.
I opened the door, still wincing in pain, and peeped out cautiously through the crack. The restroom seemed to be empty. Not a sound, apart from a tap running in one of the washbasins…
Just then I was struck hard in the back and thrown out of the cubicle, pushing the door open with my head leading the way. I rolled over onto my back and flung my hand up, ready to strike.
Las was standing in the cubicle with his arms out to the sides, holding onto the walls, and gazing around with a crazy expression on his face.
"What are you doing?" I growled. "Why did you follow me?"
"You told me to follow you," said Las, offended. "Big-shot magician!"
I got up. It was stupid to argue.
"I need to stop a crazed vampire," I said. "The most powerful magician in the world at the present time. It's… it's going to get really hot around here pretty soon…"
"Are we at Baikonur then?" Las asked, not frightened in the least. "Now that's what I call magic-that's great! But did we really have to teleport through the drains?"
I just waved one hand at him despairingly. Then I focused intently on what I could hear inside me. Yes, Gesar was somewhere close by, and Zabulon… and Svetlana… and hundreds, thousands of Others. They were waiting.
They were counting on me.
"How can I help?" Las asked. "Maybe I could look for some aspen stakes? By the way, they make matches out of genuine aspen, did you know that? I always wondered why it had to be aspen- does it really burn better than anything else? But now I realize it's for fighting vampires. Sharpen a dozen matches…"
I looked at Las.
He spread his arms apologetically. "All right, all right… I'm only trying to be helpful."
I walked across to the door of the restroom and glanced out. A long corridor, daylight lamps, no windows. At the end of the corridor a man in uniform with a pistol on his belt. A guard? Yes, there had to be security guards here. Even these days.
Only why was the guard frozen in such a stiff, awkward pose?
I went out into the corridor and moved toward the soldier. I called quietly: "Excuse me, do you mind if I ask you something?"
The guard didn't mind. He was staring into space-and smiling. A young man, not even thirty yet. Absolutely rigid. And very pale.
I pressed my fingers against his carotid artery-I could just barely feel the pulse. The bite marks were almost invisible. There were just a few small drops of blood on the collar. Yes, Kostya must have been very tired after that exit he'd made. He'd been in need of refreshment, and there hadn't been any cats around…
But if the soldier was still alive, there was a chance he would make it.
I took his pistol out of the holster-it looked like he must have been reaching for it when the vampire's command made him freeze-and carefully laid him out on the floor. Let him rest. Then I turned around.
Of course, Las had followed me. And now he was gazing at the motionless soldier.
"Can you use a gun?" I asked.
"I'll give it a try."
"If you have to, aim for the head and the heart. If you hit him, it might just slow him down."
Naturally, I was under no illusions. Even if Las emptied the entire clip into Kostya, which was already a dubious proposition, the bullets wouldn't stop a Higher Vampire. But at least it gave Las something to do.
I just hoped he wouldn't get the jitters and shoot me in the back.
Finding Kostya wasn't hard, even without using magic. We came across another three men-a guard and two civilians- who were in a trance and had been bitten. Kostya must have been moving in that vampire style when all movements become too fast for the eye to follow and the process of feeding takes no more than ten seconds.
"Will they become vampires now?" Las asked me.
"Only if he wanted them to. And only if they agreed."
"I didn't think there was any choice about that."
"There's always a choice," I said, opening yet another door.
And I realized we'd arrived.
It was a spacious, brightly lit hall, full of people. At least twenty men. The c
osmonauts were here: our captain, the American, and the space tourist-a German chocolate manufacturer.
Naturally, they were all in a state of blissful trance. Apart, that is, from two technicians in white coats, whose eyes were vacant, but whose hands were moving with their customary skill as they helped Kostya put on a spacesuit. It wasn't an easy job- flight suits are made to fit the figure, and Kostya was a bit taller than the German.
The unfortunate tourist, stripped naked-Kostya hadn't even shrunk from putting on his underwear-was sitting at one side, sucking on his index finger.
"I've only got two or three minutes," Kostya said cheerfully. "So don't delay me, Anton. Try to get in my way and I'll kill you."
Naturally, my appearance was no surprise to him.
"They won't let the rocket take off," I said. "What are you expecting? The Higher Ones know what you're planning."
"They'll let it go, they have no choice," Kostya replied calmly. "The air defense cover here is pretty good, you can take my word for it. And the cosmodrome's head of security has just given all the necessary instructions. Are you trying to tell me they'll launch a massive ballistic missile strike?"
"Yes."
"You're bluffing," Kostya replied coolly. "A strike by the Chinese or the Americans is out of the question. That would start a world war. Our rockets aren't targeted on Baikonur. They won't let planes with tactical warheads get close. You've no way out. Lie back, relax, and enjoy."
Maybe he was right.
Or maybe the Great Ones did have a plan to incinerate Baikonur with a nuclear strike and not start a world war.
That wasn't important.
The important thing was that Kostya had made up his own mind that he wouldn't be stopped. That now they would take him out and put him in the rocket… and what then?
What would he be able to do, sitting in a metal barrel, when the portals of a dozen Higher Magicians opened on the launch pad? When they instantly purged the brains of the head of security and those who had to press the "start" button and they zapped him with a portable missile with a nuclear warhead or activated some secret satellite with an X-ray laser?
He wouldn't be able to do a thing.
Twilight Watch Page 37