Nine Layers of Sky

by Liz Williams

  By the time he reached the facility, it was dusk; a good time, Ilya thought. His superiors had done their research: the target, Tsilibayev, preferred to work late.

  “He feigns eccentricity,” the man from the Cheka had said. “He works alone.”

  If Tsilibayev appeared that peculiar, Ilya thought, then it was curious how he had managed to survive the most recent purges. Unusual behavior was a luxury that few could afford, genius or not.

  He paused for a moment, to get his bearings. He craved a cigarette, but it wouldn’t be wise. Someone might see the light. As he stood ankle-deep in snow, he heard the lightest, softest footstep behind him. He turned, hand halfway to the sword, but it was a hare: winter-white, gazing at him from great dark eyes. It watched him for a moment, then loped away. Ilya chose to take it as a symbol: still the superstitious peasant boy beneath the twentieth-century façade, more easily believing in signs and the stars than in science. He listened. There was the sudden rush of snow deep in the woods, then nothing. Ilya walked on, following the point to where another sound began to filter through the silence: a low humming, like a generator. He was drawing close to the facility.

  Soon he could see it: a series of low huts with corrugated iron roofs, standing in a clearing. A cold wind blew through from the gulf, stirring Ilya’s hair. He stood still and listened. Someone was moving about in the long building to his left. There were two guards in the gatehouse, dozing over their guns. There was no sign of any dogs. Ilya slunk under the barbed wire, then through the trees to the wall, conscious of the knock of the sword against his shoulder. Merkulov’s instructions had been precise. The device lay at the back of the largest building, but was not itself very big.

  “It is a coil of black material,” Merkulov had told him. “It is very small—it would fit into the palm of your hand—but it is contained in a circular device, perhaps a foot and a half in diameter, attached to a nest of wires. Kill Tsilibayev, and destroy the coil. Blow it up.”

  Ilya, his back to the wall, glanced through the window. He could see shelves and a low metal table covered with what looked like the fragments of a generator. Ilya waited until a man came into view. It was Tsilibayev; he matched the photograph that Merkulov had shown to Ilya: a short man with cropped, greying hair and blue eyes with an Eastern tilt. A face with humor, thought Ilya. A Siberian face, moreover. With an effort, Ilya put aside his misgivings. The scientist did not look like a collaborator, but Ilya knew, perhaps more than anyone, how little one could rely upon appearances.

  Tsilibayev was moving around the lab, attaching wires to a sequence of generators. Ilya thought of Frankenstein: life jerking to its feet at the touch of the lightning strike. But Tsilibayev’s equipment was modern, all with its factory stamp. The only anomaly was the black disc in the corner of the room. Ilya could see it now that Tsilibayev had moved out of the way. It hung in a cradle of wires, a spider in a web. Tsilibayev threw a switch and stepped back. Invisible lightning touched a spark to the black coil. It began to spin, yet made no sound. It whirled silently around its own axis, so swiftly that it soon became no more than a blur.

  Ilya glanced around. The compound was empty. Ilya moved toward the door and looked through a crack. Tsilibayev stood with his back to the door, watching the spinning coil and occasionally glancing down at a device in his hand. Ilya could not tell what he was doing: taking readings of some kind, perhaps. Very slowly, Ilya tested the handle of the door. It yielded beneath his gloved fingers. It was not locked. He looked again. Tsilibayev was still absorbed in his work.

  Ilya drew the sword, stepped through the door, and closed it quietly behind him.

  Inside the building, the air smelled of chemicals. His hair snapped with static. Kill him quickly; no last words, no warning, just send him, unknowing, to God. But as Ilya raised the sword to strike, a flash of soundless light came from the direction of the device. A bright line appeared in the air, hanging vertically, like the sun glancing down the edge of a sword. Tsilibayev turned.

  His eyes widened, but all he said was, “So you’re the fool they sent to kill me. I knew it would come sooner or later. It won’t make any difference to that.” He gestured toward the spinning device.

  “They tell me you’re a traitor,” Ilya said, unsettled by the scientist’s contempt.

  “Of course they do. What I’m doing has nothing to do with Russia’s enemies. I suppose they made up some fairy story. What was it? Spaceflight?”

  “Time travel,” Ilya said before he could stop himself.

  Tsilibayev gave a great bark of laughter. “And you believed them? Your accent’s Siberian; you should have more sense. Who are the secret police recruiting these days, idiots from the villages?”

  “I’ve seen too much strangeness in my life,” Ilya said, stung.

  Tsilibayev sobered abruptly. “Do you know, something in your face makes me believe you? But we’re wasting time.”

  Ilya, the sword still drawn, took a swift step forward. Tsilibayev’s lip curled. “Destroy it if you like, after you kill me. If you can. You’ll find it harder than you think, even with dynamite. It’s based on something very old—an ancient artifact, supernatural technology that I came across in Siberia—but that’s another story. It may be nothing more than a copy, but it still works well enough to take folks to the other side. After that, who knows?” He snatched a hat from a nearby chair and placed it on his head. “I don’t know what it’s really like over there,” he said, almost conversationally. “I’ve only ever had glimpses, a few hours at a time. But it can’t be worse than Russia, can it?” And with that, the scientist stepped sideways into the air and was gone. The crack closed behind him; the machine whirred faster and faster, then something snapped. The coil spun down to a tangled wreckage of wires. There was no sign of anything nested within them.

  Ilya stared open-mouthed, Tsilibayev’s words echoing in his head. But he was under orders; it seemed that there was nothing left to do but follow them. Working quickly, he set the explosives, placing the bulk of them at the foot of the now-silent device. When he reached the door, he set the detonator and ran toward the forest, stumbling across the snow. But even as he ran, counting down, he knew that nothing would make any difference now. He could feel that Tsilibayev had been speaking the truth.

  He threw himself to the ground just before the blast. A wave of heat boiled overhead, stripping the trees clean of snow. Ilya breathed ash and the smell of burning resin. He listened and it seemed to him then that he could hear voices, the sound of humming, coming from somewhere that was at once very close and yet extremely far away. Tsilibayev’s words snapped back into memory: Destroy it if you like, after you kill me. If you can. You’ll find it harder than you think, even with dynamite. Ilya stirred uneasily, but he had no desire to go back and see what remained of the device, if there was even anything remaining. He waited until there was only smoke and showering snow, then got to his feet and started walking.

  The men were waiting for him at the railway track. He saw without surprise that they were Cheka. He could think of nothing to say, and the men, too, were silent. There was little point in trying to escape, for there were too many of them, and so he went with them to the waiting vehicle. As they headed along the remains of the road to Volgograd and the train to Siberia, he sat, staring behind him into the darkness, no longer caring.

  That had been over eighty years ago now, but the cold and the darkness were the same. Toward dusk, the train pulled into a small station, and the passengers were allowed out to visit the little kiosk that stood at the end of the platform. Ilya bought bread, and, despite his better judgment, a bottle of vodka. The heroin was wearing off now and he ached for it. There was no chance of scoring. He knew this was a good thing, but it did not feel that way.

  The passengers milled about the platform, stamping their feet in the snow. Shivering, Ilya looked upward, but a light mist hung like a veil across the sky, blotting out the stars. They were traveling through the forests now, the deep blac
k woods in which he had spent so much of the last few hundred years. It was good to get out of the city, away from the reek of petrol and pollution. Now, all he could smell was pine resin and snow. He thought again of the forests beyond old Petrograd, the marks of shellfire and revolution and the secret laboratory blazing among the trees. What had really become of Tsilibayev? Where had he disappeared to, and what had become of the thing at the heart of that strange spinning machine? Ilya could hardly believe he had followed his orders so blindly, but at that point, orders had been all that he had left.

  Ilya stepped back onto the train. He sank down and took the sword onto his lap, cradling it like a child. His body ached for heroin. He opened the vodka and took a long, burning swallow. When the dour woman came back into the carriage, Ilya glared at her. Muttering, she collected her possessions and moved into the adjoining compartment so that he had the seats to himself. He could not sleep, in spite of the vodka. Instead, he rested his head against the icy window and sat, staring as the train pulled away toward the bleakness of the Kazakh steppes.

  Two

  ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  Elena finished cleaning the third-story offices and dragged the bucket out into the corridor, then bent down to wring out the cloth. Her head was splitting: the legacy of a troubling night. Once she had fallen asleep, she dreamed that she had walked into the apartment, only to find it empty: Anna and her mother and even the furniture were gone. But as she looked around her, Elena had realized that it was not the apartment in Almaty at all, but somewhere quite different: known to her, and yet strange. The walls were paneled in birchwood, and the sunlight that fell across them was deep and golden. Wondering, Elena walked over to the window and looked out into an unfamiliar world. Lilies the color of brass nodded by the window, and the sharp, pungent smell of nutmeg wafted in. But the leaves of the lilies were blue and razor-edged, and when she bent toward one, it twisted away from her with a delicate disdain, startling Elena so much that she woke up.

  The dream kept returning to her during the course of the day, seeming more real than the dull, corporate surroundings of the oil company. She wondered with dismay whether she might be sick. Perhaps she’d picked up something in Tashkent. A few days off work now would mean a week’s wages down the pan—less money for Canada and she would probably have to buy medicine. She’d stick to dosing herself with green tea for a few days and hope it sorted itself out.

  Uneasily, she thought again about the object and its heaviness. What if it was radioactive after all, and she was guarding some kind of toxic lump? Perhaps it was just stress. Mentally, she started the familiar calculations: another month’s wages for herself and Anna, plus the pension, and perhaps if she could talk Gulnara’s brother into another run to Tashkent before he left the country …

  As she straightened up with the bucket, a familiar voice said in surprise, “Elena?”

  She looked up, and there was Fyodor Tereschenko standing in front of her. Instead of the battered leather coat and the old ushanka hat with earflaps that he had habitually worn at the cosmodrome, he was dressed in a tight dark suit and he’d shaved off his beard.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” Elena asked blankly.

  “I’ve come about a job,” Fyodor said. His face crumpled with embarrassment. “Someone mentioned that you were working here. I thought I’d look you up.”

  “Aren’t you working at the cosmodrome anymore?”

  “Yes. No. Well, not exactly. I came back to see if there’s any work going.” He glanced dubiously at the dripping mop as though Elena might offer him a job on the spot.

  “So what’s happening at the cosmodrome?”

  “A lot of changes. NASA’s more or less taken over the running of the station, which, between you and me, is just as well. At least they’ve got the money… . We do updates for TASS, and we still service the resupply craft. There are a few launches—we’re doing it at bargain rates now: a million dollars instead of three million in Florida. It’s all right for the Americans, but we’re still getting our salaries from Moscow. Except, well …” He shrugged, smiling ruefully. “You know what they say. We pretend to work and they pretend to pay us. I haven’t had any money since January.”

  “Well, you’ve heard that Georgian curse, haven’t you? May you be obliged to live on your salary.” She paused. “How are you managing?” Perhaps it was a rude question, but in recent years people had stopped caring too much about that. Delayed salaries were an all-too-familiar story.

  “I’m moonlighting as a taxi driver in Leninsk. And we’ve still got that little garden. It’s not much, but at least we get to eat. Mind you, Leninsk’s a bloody awful place.” He gestured at his clothes and added bitterly, “Hence the suit. I’m applying for other jobs, anything I can find. But I’m not sure if I stand a chance—I’ve only got a doctorate and ten years’ experience in a redundant space program, after all. I thought there’d be more work once the new station went into orbit, but …” His voice trailed away.

  “Well, you can see the sort of high-level intellectual tasks I’m engaged in these days,” Elena said wryly. “Little Havroshechka in the fairy tale has nothing on me.”

  “And you haven’t even got a magic cow to help you. Elena …” He leaned across the bucket and gave her a quick hug, startling them both. There didn’t seem to be much else they could say. They were both embarrassed. They made some vague arrangement to meet up for a drink, but Elena knew it wouldn’t happen. They were too much of a reminder for each other of what each had lost. After a few halfhearted good wishes, Fyodor left.

  Elena finished the cleaning and then walked home down Lenina. The sky was overcast and she could smell snow on the wind. Spring was so late this year. The first heavy flakes were falling by the time she reached the apartment. After the disquieting dream, she was almost relieved to step through and hear voices, but they stopped as soon as the door shut behind her. She went into the lounge.

  Anna and her mother were sitting side by side on the couch. Their expressions were identical: a quivering, hidden excitement. The money box sat on the table.

  “Mama? What’s going on?” Elena asked.

  “Look,” Elena’s mother said, beaming. In silence Elena counted the money inside the box. There was more than there had been last night: almost two hundred dollars more. Enough to get to Moscow. Elena sat down, clutching the box.

  “Wherever did this come from?”

  Smiling, Elena’s mother patted Anna’s arm.

  “My Anushka,” she murmured. “I have such good daughters.” She wiped away a tear and Elena stifled her irritation. Her mother meant well, and the years after her father’s death had been hard for them all. She should have more patience.

  Anna said, “I got the money yesterday. A bonus, from work.” Her eyes met Elena’s in a sudden, baffling challenge. “I phoned Marina in Moscow. We’ve almost got enough for tickets and start-up money now. When we get to Moscow, we’ll be staying with her for a few days until we find an apartment. And she’s heard of a job, too. In an office.” Again, the challenging look.

  “Anna, that’s marvelous,” Elena said. She reached out and hugged her sister, and Anna gave an uncertain smile. “Come and help me with the tea, and then— well, I suppose we’ll have to start to think about packing, won’t we?”

  In the kitchen, she pushed the door shut and turned on her sister.

  “Where did you get it? Waitresses don’t get bonuses.” She could see the truth in her sister’s face, but she did not want to look at it or let it in. It was like standing on the lip of a precipice. She could hear Gulnara’s voice as clearly as if her friend had been standing in front of her. I saw her in the Business Club… . She introduced me to her boyfriend. He seems nice, doesn’t he? For a German.

  Anna stared at her defiantly. “It was a bonus. Sort of.”

  “Oh, Anna.” Elena put her arms around her sister. “If I’d ever thought you’d—we’d have gotten there with the money. We nearl
y had enough.”

  “It would have taken ages and you know it. I’m not getting any younger, Elena. I’m twenty-nine and I’m sick of it here.” Anna was stiff in Elena’s arms, unyielding.

  “Who was he?” Elena asked.

  Her sister’s voice was muffled, but Elena couldn’t tell if it was with defiance or shame. “An engineer. From Frankfurt. And there were others. I met them in the Business Club. I didn’t tell you before because I knew what you’d say.” She pulled back and looked Elena in the face. “Look, Elena, it was only a couple of times. Lots of girls do it. The first one said he’d pay me fifty dollars—I thought, that’s a fortune, it’s almost five months’ salary. It would just be stupid not to do it. And it was okay. They’re just men. They were nice, really.”

  Elena did not know what to say, or to think. Anna, her little sister, suddenly seemed a stranger. “Mama mustn’t know,” she said. Her voice did not sound like her own. Anna nodded vigorously.

  “Of course not. So you’ll back me up? Say you knew about the bonus, and we wanted it to be a surprise?”

  “All right,” Elena said reluctantly. “But what about the rest of the money? You’re not—you’re not planning to do this again, are you?”

  “If we could get another fifty—”

  “Anna, no. Will you promise me?”

  Slowly, Anna nodded. But a shared girlhood had left legacies: of hidden dolls, borrowed makeup, unfinished homework. Elena had always known when Anna was lying, and vice versa. And Anna was lying now. It wasn’t the issue of sex with strangers, but the familiarity of it that was so depressing. The twenty-first century and here was Anna, trained as a lawyer, but feeling obliged to do what girls had done for thousands of years to get their families out of a jam. And combined with that was the faintest trace of guilt, that she herself hadn’t found the money fast enough, or had the nerve to do what Anna had done. Perhaps she should have joined that dating agency after all, and found a rich foreign businessman. But confronting her sister would be useless; she’d have to think of something else. If she could get hold of a few dollars from somewhere, so that they could just get the tickets sorted out …