Metro 2035

by Dmitry Glukhovsky

  “Make way! By invitation of the Council!”

  The cordon tore open—they let Timur through into the circle, and together with him Prince and Luka; both from the old team. Timur noticed Artyom on the bench and nodded to him, but didn’t intervene for him. He walked inside. Luka and Prince stayed on guard.

  What were they talking about? What were they haggling over? Stalling for time? Setting ultimatums? Begging for forgiveness? Studying the head on a dish?

  Inside there was silence.

  Had all of them in there been poisoned?

  “Make way! Make way! To the Council!”

  Who was it this time?

  The crowd parted less willingly now, without the same respect, grumbling: Why the hell should we? Artyom craned his neck. The black circle didn’t part immediately for these people either.

  He didn’t see him immediately.

  The first one to step through the cordon was Bessolov.

  Alive, pale, intense, and silent. Lyokha the apostle appeared behind him. AlexeI Felixovich cast a gloomy glance over Artyom, but didn’t greet him. Lyokha, on the contrary, nodded. They both walked inside. had the apostle brought a hostage? There were another two members of the Order with him, they stayed outside.

  Artyom leapt up off the bench and started shouting his questions into the rag. They struck him behind the knees to make him fall back again, and he fell. Luka and Prince hissed at the man who chopped him down, and they all grabbed their holsters.

  They waited for a moment and then eased back.

  Everything was being decided behind the doors now, and not here.

  It was getting really stuffy—like at Komsomol Station, like right in front of the machine guns. People pressed forward and the cordon shrank slowly, although it had no right to yield its positions. The bronze chandeliers, hoops two meters wide that weighed half a tonne, seemed to sway on their chains as if in a wind—so many people here were breathing in and out in unison.

  Suddenly.

  A different sound flew across the station. A cough.

  The soldiers in the cordon roused themselves; the crowd fell silent and started gazing round. Staccato coughing, from numerous speakers at the same time. It turned out that this place also had its own public address system.

  “Testing. Testing. One, two. One, two.”

  Right across the station—in a deep, pleasant voice.

  “Dear citizens. Your attention, please. An important announcement will be made shortly. Do not disperse.”

  “Give us the truth! Tell us the truth!” They shouted back to the invisible announcer.

  But he merely cleared his throat and fell silent.

  “Something important …”

  “Could it really be …”

  “Mind-blowing …”

  It was only when time came to a complete stop that the door opened. A fat man wearing a brown suit walked out into the black circle with a businesslike air; his eyes were glassed in, and his broad forehead swept back and up in a humped bridge to the back of his head. His assistant gave the fat man a hoist up, and he scrambled onto the marble bench beside Artyom; that way the crowd could see him.

  “The Chairman of the Council … Himself …”

  Then Miller and Anzor appeared in the doorway, with Timur following. They separated, moving away from the bench in opposite directions.

  The fat man blew his nose. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the snotty handkerchief, then used it to clean his lenses and set his glasses back on the bridge of his nose.

  “Citizens. We have gathered here today. The reason was a rather unpleasant event. Within the highly respected Order, which is called upon to safeguard all of us … There has been a disagreement, so to speak. We’ll come back to that in a while.”

  “Stop pussyfooting about! Give it to us straight!”

  “Yes. Of course. Straight to the essence. The point is that we have established. It is absolutely incredible, of course. But we have incontrovertible proof. Which we will present in due course, have no doubt about that. Well then. We have established quite certainly that. That Moscow is not the only city to have survived in the Last War. We have intercepted a radio broadcast.”

  The crowd was struck dumb. The sounds died—all the other sounds, apart from the tedious, musty voice of the man in brown.

  Mute Artyom looked up at him as if he was an oracle. The way he had looked at Letyaga before the shot. As if he was a saint.

  “We are prepared to allow you to listen to it. But first a few words. For me personally, as for all of you, this is a genuine shock. The point is that the broadcast comes from the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. Dear citizens, comrades, brothers. You understand what that means. It means that the enemy who annihilated our country, who sent a hundred and forty million of our compatriots to their graves—Parents, children, wives, husbands—that enemy is still alive. He wasn’t finished off. The war is not yet over. None of us can feel safe anymore. A new, final blow could be struck at us at any moment if we betray our presence in any way at all.”

  Artyom bellowed and roared, slipped off the bench, and fell on the cold floor.

  “For all these years only one thing has saved us. The fact that we lived in the Metro. The fact that we were certain the surface was not fit for us to live there. Thanks to that we have survived. And now it is our only chance to continue to survive. I know. It is frightening. It is hard to believe. But I am asking you to believe it. The Council of Polis is asking you. Listen for yourselves. This is the recording that we made today. It is New York broadcasting.”

  The speakers came back to life. They sneezed.

  “Khkhkhkh … Eeeeeoooo … Shshshsh …”

  And a song thundered out. A strange, alien kind of song: in a foreign language, with drums and whooping, with trumpet fanfares and bugles; in a broken rhythm a man’s voice started half wailing, half reciting something between a hymn and a march. He was supported by a female choir. The song reverberated with an irrepressible strength. There was a defiant challenge in it. And a malign joy. And a savage, vital energy.

  It was music to which you could, you had to, move and dance to—dissolutely, licentiously.

  But no one under the half-tonne chandeliers in the immense hall of white stone could stir a muscle.

  The chandeliers swayed as if in an earthquake. The people breathed in the thunder of drums and breathed out horror.

  “As you can see … Hear … for yourselves … There it is, the bestial music of cavemen … In other words, while we suffer our privation, they continue with their debauchery. And in addition we have information that they have preserved their nuclear potential. This is an enemy who is a hundred times more dangerous. This is something we still have to grasp. Now our life can hardly remain as it was. This is the beginning of a new era. And in this connection … Here is a declaration. Gather round.”

  Timur—black hair with gray streaks, slim and sinewy, came over to the brown chairman. He leaned down to Artyom and helped him sit up. Then he climbed up on the bench.

  “The veterans of the Order are outraged by the arbitrary actions of our former commander, Colonel Miller. Our comrade was killed by his henchmen instead of being given a fair trial. We apologize to the citizens of Polis for the disturbances. We announce our withdrawal from the command structure. We refuse to obey the orders of Colonel Miller.”

  Timur was speaking jerkily, in a husky smoker’s voice. The best intelligence officer in the Order. Letyaga’s senior colleague and teacher. What was he planning?

  “The base of the Order at Smolensk Station remains ours. We will hold an honest election for new commanders. However, we consider that in the new circumstances a continuation of conflict is impermissible. Therefore, as a new command, we swear an oath of allegiance directly to the Council of Polis. We swear to be loyal and undertake to defend Polis. Against all enemies. Both overt and covert.”

  He swung round towards the man in brown and saluted him.

  First a singl
e clap rang out, then another; and then, like a scattering downpour, there came a rustling, a pattering, a drumming.

  “Bravo! Hoorah! Glory!”

  “Idiot!” Artyom roared at Timur with his stuffed mouth. “You great idiot! There isn’t any Polis! There isn’t any Council! You’re just swearing loyalty to a different head! Don’t believe them!”

  Timur looked at him and nodded.

  “We’ll get you away from them too, Tyoma. We’ll fight side by side against the Yanks yet.”

  “I disagree with the way the question has been posed,” Miller said gravely from his bent wheelchair. “But I’m willing to close my eyes to that. I will not consider this a mutiny. Temporary disagreements, let us say. When the Homeland is in danger, we have no right to petty squabbles. We’ll resolve things by negotiation. Our Order has already paid too high a price. I also swear loyalty in the name of the Order to the Council of Polis. I believe that the time for internal strife is over. We no longer have any right to slaughter each other. Reds, fascists, Hansa … First and foremost we are Russian people. We have to remember that. We are under threat from our archenemy. He doesn’t care what we believe in. As soon as he finds out that we are still alive, he will annihilate us all without any distinction!”

  People listened and took it all in: No one argued or even dared to whisper. Artyom leaned his weight forward and got up onto his knees. He swayed and managed to stand up. And before the guards, spellbound by Miller, realized what was happening, he took a short run-up and butted Miller in the temple, tumbling him over onto the ground, together with his wheelchair.

  “Hold him! Hold him!”

  They started beating Artyom, and he tried to catch hold of the old idiot’s neck with his legs, to squeeze, crush him, and strangle him. They broke out one of his teeth, and the gag fell out.

  “Lies! You’re lying! You bastards!”

  There was no way to squeeze through the tightly packed crowd, and the men in black started dragging Artyom inside, through the doors. They picked Miller up and dusted him off.

  “You little shit. You scum! I’ll grind you to dust. You trash. You and that ungrateful bitch. You’ll both hang. You mildew. It’s lies. All lies.”

  Timur explained for him.

  “This is an arrested saboteur. We have grounds for believing that he was spying. Trying to expose us. We’re checking.”

  Eventually they loaded the colonel into his wheelchair and dragged Artyom inside. On that side of the doors a long corridor with numerous exits began. They dumped Artyom immediately.

  And from there, in a seizure, he listened.

  “Yes, Svyatoslav Konstantinovich.” The brown chairman swayed his heavy head with its receding hair. “You have spoken the golden words of a man who knows the value of human life. In this and all other matters I am in complete solidarity with you. I suggest that we dispatch our diplomats to the Red Line, Hansa, and the representatives of the Reich today, without delay. And get everyone sitting round the negotiating table. To put an end to the disagreements that have plagued us for all these years. When all’s said and done, we’re not so very different. We have to stick together now. Combine our forces. And together, collectively—we, you—must defend the Metro. Our only home, our common home. Our only home for the decades to come, if we wish to survive. Our sacred home forever!”

  “Not so very different,” Ilya Stepanovich repeated after him in horror. “We’re not so very different. Us and them. First and foremost Russian people. Stick together. For what? What for. To the representatives of the Reich. Narineshka.”

  But the crowd chewed up his mumbling. Battered and bruised at first by this revelation, now it was beginning to straighten up, understanding and mulling over what had been pumped into it.

  “The Yanks … All this time … Music … Stuffing themselves … Dancing about … Like animals … But I always had the feeling … Them and their darky hip-hop … Here we are eating shit … And they want to take our shit away from us … The last thing we have left … I knew it, I knew it … They won’t give us any peace … Never mind, we’ll wait it out … We’ll hold out … We’ve seen worse … Maybe nothing will change …”

  “As you know, times are difficult even without this,” the man in brown continued, speaking over them all. “The mushroom disease has exhausted our reserves. We’ll have to tighten our belts even further. But if we join together, we can … Our great power! Our people have time and again!”

  He had to shout above a rising hubbub. People had finally managed to chew up and swallow the truth that they had wanted to hear.

  Artyom, pulverized, sat against the wall, intently swallowing unappetizing, warm blood. He felt with his tongue at the hollows from his lost teeth.

  Bessolov suddenly appeared somewhere in the corridor. had he come out of a meeting room? Lyokha the apostle was striding behind him.

  “Kill him!” Artyom hissed to Lyokha. “That’s him! He incited them!”

  “Who’s this?” AlexeI Felixovich didn’t recognize Artyom. “Is there another way out here? I don’t fancy going through the crowd again.”

  “You forgot your waincoat,” Lyokha said to him. “Thew, wet me help you.”

  “Lyokha! Lyokha! You … What … But you’ve … Got to …”

  “Catch up with me!” AlexeI Felixovich strode off rapidly in the opposite direction.

  “Wisten … You know, I decided … We won’t achieve anything that way … If we just kiw him. The system has to be changed fwom the inside! Gwaduawy. Wevowution isn’t our method. Do you understand?” Lyokha explained in a spuriously apologetic tone of voice over his shoulder to Artyom. “He’s taken me on as a consultant. An assistant. I’m going to gwaduawy … Fwom the inside … Fwom the bunker …”

  “You shiteater!” Artyom wheezed, straining his voice. “You sold out for the bunker? For the grub? You sold me out for the grub? Us? Everyone?”

  “What do you mean—us?” asked Lyokha, getting furious. “Who’s that—us? There isn’t any us! Nobody needs all this except you! You’ll cwoak now, but I’ll still be there, managing things.”

  “Alexei!” Bessolov called to him. “Do I have to wait much longer? Is this the way you start a new job?”

  Lyokha didn’t spit at Artyom in farewell; he didn’t kick him. He spun round and ran to catch up with Bessolov.

  The door scraped, and Timur stuck his head in.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Get up! While they’re still speechifying. Come on!”

  He jerked Artyom up by the scruff of his white waiter’s shirt, and the collar split. He set Artyom on his feet and let him lean against his shoulder.

  “I’m with you!” Ilya Stepanovich whispered prayerfully. “Take me! I don’t want to be with them! Don’t leave me.”

  “There’s another exit here. Let’s go that way for a start. Once the old man gathers his wits, you’re for the high jump. We’ll never get you out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Borovitskaya. Anka’s waiting there. And from there to Polyanka. And onwards from there. Do you have a place to hide?”

  “At home. Anya … Is she all right?”

  “She’s waiting! Where should we take you?”

  “To Exhibition. No need to go to Polyanka. I have to go to Chekhov, to the Reich.”

  “What for? What the hell do you want at Chekhov?”

  “Homer’s there. I have to see Homer.”

  “Hey!” A long-haired Brahmin glanced out of a conference hall. “Where are you going?”

  “Timurchik. Do you understand? The Invisible Observers. They’re keeping us here. They’re lying to all of you. They trick all of us!”

  “Listen, Tyoma … Don’t feed me all that. I don’t want to poke my nose into politics. I’m a soldier. Full stop. An officer. I can’t abandon you here. But don’t try to brainwash me with that shit of yours. Let’s just stay friends.”

  What could he do with him? What cou
ld he do with all of them?

  There was still a chance to prove it all to people. While they were lying about their bastard radio. He had to get there, to Chekhov. Help with the printing. Help with the distribution.

  The three of them walked through corridors and passages. Painted doors banged; people walked towards them and were surprised by Artyom’s outfit and battered face. Ilya Stepanovich strode along stubbornly behind. The light blinked; the rats scattered from under their feet. Finally, a breath of creosote blew in their faces. A snug, cozy smell. This was it, Borovitskaya.

  “Just a moment, I’ll find your ever-loving … And then it’s Polyanka.”

  “Not Polyanka. Chekhov. To the Reich.”

  “You can discuss that with her. Stay here. Sit quiet. Just don’t let any of our guys see you, okay?”

  “I will. Sit quiet. Thanks, Timurchik.”

  He sat down at a long table of wooden planks. Folded his lacerated hands in front of him.

  He looked round: This was his favorite station in the entire Metro.

  Dark-red brick, creosote in the air, like pine resin—sweet and smoky—little monk-cell homes, cloth lampshades, gentle music playing somewhere, string instruments, people in amusing robes, leafing through decrepit books. Holding whispered conversations about what they’ve read, and living in what they’ve read, with no need at all of the upper world or the lower one.

  Where was the cell in which Artyom spent the night with Danila, his friend for one day and for the rest of his life? It was occupied by someone else.

  “Homer?”

  He got up.

  It was a familiar silhouette.

  “Homer!”

  Where had he come from? How? Why? Surely he should be at the Reich?

  Artyom got up and started hobbling … He rubbed his eyes. The old man was absorbed: He was examining the empty cell. A young Brahmin with a stupid little mustache that had never been shaved was showing him the small room, giving him instructions, handing him the keys.