by Lisa Smedman
Silence fell as Vanya came to the end of his song. He lowered the mandolin and stared at Alexi, echoing Nevsky’s question.
“What’s wrong?” He squinted out at the darkened theater. “Did that officer find us?”
Something behind the curtain—a hand—tapped Alexi on the shoulder. Yelping in surprise he ran—right off the stage. He landed on the floor in a sprawled heap, knocking the air from his lungs. But his drunkenness saved him. Loose-limbed, he suffered no cracked ribs or broken bones. Just two badly scuffed palms.
The eyes were still watching him. He could feel it. Alexi scrambled to his feet.
“That was nice, Vanya,” he said, jogging up the darkened aisle, tripping over steps with hands splayed in front of him like a blind man. He’d been weaving on his feet a few short minutes ago, but now he suddenly felt sober. “Keep playing. It’s just—I suddenly feel sick. I need to get some air.”
He heard Nevsky’s laugh from the front row. “Save a bucket for me, Alexi,” he joked. “My stomach isn’t feeling so good, either.”
When Alexi reached the lobby he broke into a run. He clambered out through the open window and walked rapidly across the front of the opera house, ducking slightly as he passed the heroic statues. Only when he was back on the street did the feeling that someone was watching him finally fade.
He crossed ploshchad Lenina, dodging out of the way as a truck filled with MVD soldiers rumbled past. They were young—no more than teenagers—sitting on benches in the back of the tarp-covered truck with new-looking Kalashnikov rifles. Their faces were fresh, their cheeks plump and hair still thick. One of them actually noticed Alexi’s corporal stripes and saluted him as they passed by. Recruits then, rather than radiation-sickened conscripts. Young enough that they didn’t know any better. Young enough that they should have still been in school.
Alexi grunted. Probably not a single one of them knew who Lenin was, either.
He trudged down Krasny prospekt, past the entrance to the metro station. The subway didn’t run anymore; the underground had been turned into a bomb shelter, back in the days of the China-Soviet War. Next to it was a museum, closed like the opera house. Alexi almost considered breaking in for a look—the museum was supposed to have an excellent display on the building of the Trans-Siberian Railroad, responsible for the founding of Novosibirsk in 1893. But something held him back. He had a sudden irrational notion that museums were places inhabited by the dead—restless spirits who had left behind their clothing, tools, and art just a few short moments ago. Alexi didn’t want to be stared at by their haunting photographic images. One pair of eyes watching him was enough. And they were watching him, even now . . .
He looked around. He’d reached ulitsa M. Gorkogo. A jeep was just turning into the triangular intersection. Alexi suddenly recognized the officer occupying its passenger seat—the Intelligence officer who had been looking for him earlier. The last thing Alexi wanted to do was be confronted by him.
He ran to the closest building: the blue-and-gold-domed Vosnesenky Sobor, Cathedral of the Ascension. Thankfully, the front entrance wasn’t locked. Alexi pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors and slipped inside.
It had been years since Alexi had been inside a sobor. He’d done his share of praying on the battlefield—what soldier hadn’t?—and still wore around his neck the Orthodox cross that his mother had once worn—the one set with four diamonds and a chunk of black stone. But he didn’t consider himself a religious man. It wasn’t faith that had kept him alive during the three long and grueling years he’d been in the army. It was sheer dumb luck. Why, in Vladivostok alone, Alexi might have been killed a dozen different ways. Yet somehow, while the rest of the Battalion of Death was being slaughtered all around them, he and his squad had survived.
Unlike the museum and the opera house, the sobor was still open for business. The sweet smell of incense hung in the air, and thick white candles flickered in glass-bottle containers. The only other person in the building besides Alexi was an elderly woman polishing a brass rail at one side of the room—a concession for worshippers who were ill with radiation or toxin poisoning, or who had been crippled in the war. Unlike places of worship in Western Europe, Russian churches had no benches to sit on. Worshippers stood to sing and pray.
The woman, whose wrinkled face was shrouded by a head scarf, glanced pointedly at Alexi. Realizing that he was still wearing his beret, he scooped it from his head. Holding it in his hands, he stood and debated whether to stay inside the sobor. It was warm, but the smell of incense was cloying. The warmth of the candles was lulling the alcohol back into Alexi’s brain, and he felt himself swaying on his feet. But the Intelligence officer was probably still looking for him . . .
He crossed to the iconostasis that divided the main body of the sobor from the sanctuary at its eastern end. Made from tiered rows of heavily gilded icons, the wall had a door at its center. Only the priests were allowed to pass through this Holy Door into the altar area behind it.
Alexi stood in front of the iconostasis, letting his eye range over the rows of icons. The “canvas” of each icon was a slab of dark wood, thickly painted with muted oils that had cracked with age, and highlighted with gilt. The bottom row of icons showed local saints; not being from Novosibirsk, Alexi didn’t recognize any of them. The icons above them showed Old Testament prophets and patriarchs, and winged archangels. At the top was an icon of Christ on his throne, with the Virgin and John the Baptist flanking him on either side. The solemn, bearded figure of Christ Pantokrator looked gravely down at Alexi. Once again, he got the sense that someone was watching him.
He glanced back over his shoulder, and saw the elderly woman. She was leaning on the handle of her broom, staring at him. No—staring at his hands. Her ancient face was crinkled in a frown.
What was wrong? Alexi might stink of vodka, but he had bared his head and was acting in a respectful manner. He glanced down at the beret he held, and saw that there was blood dripping from his scuffed hands. It trickled down his palms, dripping onto the yellowed tiles.
With a disapproving shake of her head, the cleaning woman disappeared through a side door. Probably to get a mop. Alexi scuffed a boot across the drops of blood on the tiles, but only succeeded in smearing the blood and making the stain worse.
He was just about to turn and leave when he heard a creaking noise. He glanced up—and saw that the Holy Door had opened a crack. Thinking that one of the black-robed priests was going to emerge and admonish him, Alexi opened his mouth to apologize. But the figure that stepped through the door wasn’t even human.
Nearly three meters tall and thin as a famine victim, the figure had a human shape. But try as he might, Alexi couldn’t bring it into focus. The person’s outline wavered and shimmered like a heat wave; the more Alexi tried to focus on it, the less distinct it became. Those strangely articulated limbs—were they folded wings?
The only thing Alexi could see clearly was the metal staff that the figure held in one hand. Alexi’s heart hammered a warning in his chest as he stared at the wickedly sharp blade that tipped the end of that shaft. Was this a shepherd—or the grim reaper?
Knuckles whitening as he gripped his beret, Alexi took a step backward. But then the figure spoke—in perfect Russian. The voice was overlaid with a hissing sound, like the white noise of pattering rain.
“Do not be afraid,” it said. “We must talk.”
“Who . . . what are you?” Alexi asked. A thought suddenly struck him: during the fighting in Vladivostok, on several occasions he’d felt a sudden urge to do—or not do—something, to go in a certain direction—or not. The feeling had been similar to déjà vu. And each time he had that feeling, it had caused him to pause and reconsider his actions—to do things that Alexi knew had either saved his life or spared him from becoming wounded. Had someone—or something—been watching over him and whispering in his ear?
“Are you my guardian angel?” he asked at last.
The figure coc
ked a blurred head to one side. After a moment’s thought, it answered. “I am a holy person, yes. I have been seeking you.”
“But I’m just a soldier,” Alexi protested, taking another step back. “What do you want with me?”
“I have come to warn you—to warn all humankind,” the angel said. “And to help you to save humankind, if I can.”
Alexi listened, awestruck. The silence stretched, and his head spun—though whether from the vodka or from the sudden realization that came into his mind, he couldn’t say.
“Me?” he asked at last.
“You,” the angel answered. “My arrival on your planet was . . . not welcomed. I was knocked from the sky. I searched for a human of power, with whom to communicate. Someone in whom the flame burned brightly. A holy person, like myself.”
“Uh . . .” Alexi swallowed and glanced around the sobor. It was still empty. “I think you want to speak to the priest, then.”
The angel ignored his protest. “The ancient souls whispered to me from the darkness. You are the one. You lead, and I follow. Together we will reach the end of time. And stop it.”
Now Alexi knew he was drunk. None of this was making any sense. Guardian angel or not, the figure in front of him was speaking gibberish. Alexi wondered if Nevsky had added a hallucinogen to the vodka, to spice it up a little.
Slowly he began backing away from the shimmering angel. If he was hallucinating, it could be anyone standing in front of him: the elderly cleaning woman, or the priest—or even worse, the Intelligence officer or Soldatenkof himself. Christ only knew what sort of gibberish Alexi was spouting off. If he didn’t watch out, they’d lock him up in a madhouse. Or just declare him unfit for duty and shoot him.
“I’m drunk,” he said, articulating the words as clearly as he could. “I need to lie down and sleep it off. Perhaps we can continue this conversation another time?”
Despite the fact that the figure was a mere blur, Alexi had the distinct impression that it was unhappy with his answer.
“Some other time?” it echoed. “That now is already here.”
Visions of being sent to a penal battalion for being drunk and disorderly inside a sobor shuddered through Alexi’s mind. He had to get out of there. His heart was pounding and it was getting difficult to breathe. And the room was starting to spin. Turning his back on the hallucination, he bolted for the door.
6
A lexi awoke with a start. Where was he? Inside something dark. He reached out from under the blankets that covered him and touched the wall beside him with one hand. Cold metal, filmed with a glisten of ice. He drew his hand away and shivered.
He sat up. He’d been lying on a bench made of nylon webbing in a place that smelled of dried mud, diesel fumes, and cracked vinyl. Inside a vehicle of some kind. But without his glasses, his surroundings were a blur. His helmet was also gone; his head was bare, and his ears were numb with cold.
Alexi patted his chest, looking for his glasses. He found them where he always kept them when he slept: buttoned safely inside the breast pocket of his combats, under the heavy jacket he was wearing.
He looked forward through an open doorway and saw the reflective sheen of an instrument panel. By the fading glow of its light he could make out the familiar contours of a helicraft cockpit. The engine was silent, and there was no motion—it was on the ground, then. Alexi was in the back, lying on one of the benches that folded up against the walls of the cargo bay when not in use. The rear door, which could flop down like a metal gangplank to disgorge soldiers, was closed.
Snow was falling softly outside the helicraft. It had already coated much of the cockpit windows, patches of white that blocked any view of the outside. Something had awakened him—a faint scraping noise. Maybe branches blowing against the outside of the helicraft?
Branches meant a forest, and that meant . . .
Alexi gripped the edge of the bench on which he sat, his heart beating. How had he come to be there? Had the transport helicraft crashed, knocking him out and causing amnesia? Where were the others in his squad? The last thing he remembered clearly was the fighting in Vladivostok. He had been . . . Torn to pieces by a rocket? No, that wasn’t it. Been shot by . . . No. That wasn’t it either. Then his mind seized on the one thing he knew with certainty. The Union soldier, the one in the heavy-assault suit. He’d attacked it with a grenade, and . . .
His head ached from trying to remember what had occurred between then and now. He had some hazy memories of being drunk, and on leave. But that might have been just a dream . . .
He chafed his hands together, shivering in the cold. His breath fogged in front of his face. Where was he?
He heard breathing. It came from a blanket-wrapped figure that lay on the bench on the opposite side of the cargo bay. Alexi glanced down and saw the familiar contours of an AK-51 at his feet. Slowly, he reached for it. The heavy jacket he was wearing creaked, and the figure stirred slightly. Alexi paused, not really understanding why his heart was beating so furiously. He was inside a Neo-Soviet helicraft. The figure on the bench across from him had to be a friendly soldier. But silent alarms were ringing in Alexi’s mind, putting him on the alert.
AK-51 in hand, he crept across the cargo hold toward the sleeping figure. He located the face by the fog of breath coming from the open mouth, then prodded the chest below it with the barrel of his weapon.
The soldier sat up.
“What is it, Alexi? Is Raheek back?” A woman’s voice.
“Irina?” Alexi asked, tentatively.
Then he realized that the woman’s Russian had been heavily accented. In that same moment, he remembered where he’d heard accents like that before: in the shouted, half-intelligible surrenders of Union soldiers.
Alexi raised the AK-51 to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel at the enemy. Despite the cold, nervous sweat trickled under his arms.
“Don’t move!” His shout sounded hollow in the cargo bay. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot!”
In the dim light, Alexi could only just make out the enemy soldier’s features. She looked Korean, with wide cheeks and a short flat nose. Her short black hair was covered by a Russian ushanka—a fur cap with earflaps. Despite the cold, she wore only a lightweight shirt and combat pants, both of them too big for her, over a silver bodysuit of some kind. Her feet were covered with tight-fitting, soft rubber boots that looked like something a diver would wear.
Alexi suddenly realized where he’d seen her before. This was the Union soldier that he and Irina had killed—the one inside the bright green heavy-assault suit. Was she really alive? Or had her ghost come back to haunt him? And if it had, what was it doing wearing a Neo-Soviet uniform?
“What are you doing, Alexi?” The woman’s voice was sleepy and slightly irritable; she stared up at him without fear, despite the fact that an assault rifle was pointed at her chest.
Alexi shivered, and the barrel of his AK-51 trembled. His hands were aching with the cold where he gripped its metal stock; he wasn’t certain if his numbed fingers would be able to pull the trigger.
“How do you know my name?” he asked. “And how is it you are alive? I thought—”
“I’m alive because I brought the helicraft to a safe landing after the rotors iced up,” the woman answered. “And thanks to me, so are you. If I hadn’t found a bare spot among the trees, we’d have crashed.”
“You were flying the helicraft?” Alexi asked in amazement. A blizzard of possibilities whirled through his mind. Had the Union soldier captured him? Had his squad captured her? Had she somehow overpowered and disposed of everyone else? None of the scenarios made any sense.
The woman stared back at him with a suddenly wary expression. “We made a truce,” she said slowly. “That we would cease hostilities until we found out whether Raheek is telling the truth—if it really was a meteorite. If you were thinking of going on alone, you should have shot me when I was still sleeping.”
“Meteorite?” Alexi’s mind fought
for a handhold on a reality that was as slippery as ice. He’d been in combat in Vladivostok, and had looked up to the heavens at the swirling mass of the Maw, and had seen . . .
“You mean the shooting star I saw?”
“Don’t be so coy. You were the one who figured out where it must have fallen. It was lucky that you taught history before the war, Leitenant.”
Leitenant? Alexi glanced at his shoulder, and saw a solid yellow band on the shoulder board of the jacket that he wore: an officer’s stripe. Suddenly he realized why the jacket was so heavy. He was wearing a flak jacket. He sniffed, smelling it for the first time. The jacket stank of boiled meat, and was uncomfortably tight on Alexi, narrow though his shoulders were. He glanced at the chest. The name that had been printed onto the jacket’s pectoral plate had been gouged away. Only traces of the block letters remained: S - - DA - - - - - F.
Yet another mystery settled like a snowflake onto Alexi’s already overburdened mind. How had he come to be wearing Leitenant Soldatenkof’s armored jacket? Panic seized him. If the leitenant wasn’t wearing his jacket, he was probably dead. And that meant a court-martial and firing squad for Alexi.
He focused on the immediate problem. The enemy.
“You are my prisoner,” he told the Union soldier. He steadied the aim of his weapon. “I want some answers. Now. Where are—”
“I knew I couldn’t trust you, Sov,” the Union soldier spat. “But you’d be stupid to shoot me. Pull that trigger, and you’ll be stuck here in the Siberian wilderness in a downed helicraft with a radio that doesn’t work. Then it will be just you and the alien, with not another human being for hundreds of kilometers.”
“Alien?” The mystery was deepening, the questions piling up like accumulating snow. Alexi had no idea what the enemy soldier was talking about. “What are you—”
The rear hatch opened with a loud squeal of metal and the cracking of breaking ice. As it thudded to the ground, cold gray light spilled into the cargo bay. Alexi’s combat training took over. He turned and crouched in the same motion, keeping the barrel of his AK-51 trained on the known threat: the Union soldier. But what he saw in the open cargo door, backlit by the watery light of an overcast sky, caused him to forget all about the enemy soldier he had just been confronting. Astonished, he let his assault rifle droop at the same time that his jaw involuntarily sagged open.