One of the dogs turned towards Eugene.
– Go! – I said. – Just don't try to run, they'll jump you first if you do…
Eugene started backing down slowly, keeping his face turned toward the beasts. I was just standing there, looking at him.
– Just a moment… I'll be back! With help! – mumbled Eugene.
It was apparent that no help would make it in time. He knew that, and I knew that. When I told him to leave there was still a shade of hope in me: what if he does not run? What if he thinks something up? When he followed my advice I couldn't help feeling betrayed.
The dog I was going to shoot before, made a step forward, raised its head and sent a hoarse howl towards the stars. The packs started crawling towards me, closing in for the final leap.
And then the jet-black forest, the dilapidated houses, the whole freezing planet shook from a howl so awful it didn't even make you want to run – just dropping face down and silently praying for mercy was more like it. I never heard anything like it before.
One of the dogs jumped at me.
* * *
They were standing down there at the airlock and quarreling. They didn't have the courage to check if the dogs had dismembered me already, and they weren't cowardly enough to run crying to their mommies at the Exhibition. At least they had where to run.
– How? – Eugene stared at me.
I shrugged my shoulders.
– How long was I there?
– About fifteen minutes... How... How did you escape? Artyom...
– I've no idea, – I tucked my head and shoulders again. – Just fifteen minutes?
It seemed to me that everything – our trip, the rusty discolored stand, the dogs – everything was yesterday. As if I'd slept a night.
– Artyom! – insisted Eugine. – Why are you smiling?! What happened?!
I gave him no answer. I remembered nothing.
I recalled everything years after.
* * *
Sure as hell I hated the Dark Ones. Everyone does.
Walking through my home station with floor splattered with blood, madmen tied hand and foot writhing about in their delirium, revenge was the only thing on my mind. When I heard Eugene was killed I shed the last doubt. I wanted to burn their nest to cinders, along with the Botanical Gardens which I'd never be able to return to anyways.
The legends that gossip lovers tell each other today depict the Dark Ones as having incredible power and being terribly ferocious. They say they dismembered the guards with bare hands, writhing their necks – I won't be surprised if the mutants from these tales start actually drinking human blood. This is all complete and utter nonsense. Truth is a hundred times scarier.
The fact is, the Dark Ones didn't kill a single man. They didn't even touch anyone. Everyone died at the hands of their own comrades who were driven raving mad by the Dark Ones. Nobody is able to retain self control when the Dark Ones approach. And nobody remembers what he turned into while they were around. Sure thing, when the feat subsides and you see your friend with his throat ripped out it's easier than anything to think that a beast had done it. Think it and believe it.
True enough, by the way – the only catch being that the beast had crawled out your own self and hid right back after finishing its business. That is something anyone's better with not knowing, for anyone who met that beast within even for a moment would always be in dire need of a straight jacket.
There's only one person I know who tried to make do without one. He thought combat armor was a better restraint for a body housing the monster trying to take its actual owner's place. He believed that a titanium helmet would stop something alien from entering his head…
But we're not talking about this man now.
There was nobody who did not feel fear and disgust at the mere sight of the Dark Ones. They were our complete opposite. Seeing a Dark One was not unlike seeing a man turned inside out, with meat and intestines pulsing outside with obscene frankness. Not because of their body structure – one could poke a Dark One's corpse with a stick or kick it with no fear of losing the latest meal; it was something completely different. Their living presence was to be blamed. The closer they approached, the stronger the disgust and fear grew. It seemed that if this hell spawn touched you, your soul, not brain but the very soul, would be infected with some kind of a parasite or fungus, be covered with pus-spouting ulcers, wither and die but still remain there, serving as food for the parasite for as long as it deems necessary… Though the actual impressions varied from person to person.
So there was nothing more normal than wanting to eliminate every last one of these nightmares: it was the only way to get rid of fear which would otherwise follow you until death.
And that's why I knew what I had to do when the weapon of revenge we pried out of our ancestor's cold dead hands fell under my control. And I did exactly that.
It took the missiles less than a minute to cover the distance between the launch position that survived the Final war in a miraculously mint condition and the home of the new sentient species that was equally miraculously born to this planet. But there was another minute before that, the time it took while the target coordinates were being transferred to the launch control.
That minute turned into a personal eternity for me.
* * *
– I don't remember, – I told Eugene. – Get off my case!
Of course we were questioned when we got back. We told nothing.
Eugene and Vitali forgot that going to the Gardens was my idea, and I forgot that they left me on the surface alone. I never asked Eugene about why did he leave me there to be eaten by the wild dogs, and he never asked how I managed to escape. And all of us kept complete silence about us leaving the airlock open when we were fleeing the Gardens as fast as we could.
We tried to close it manually, but it was really hard to move. Then I told “to hell with it!”, Vitali and Eugene looked at me with either a reproach or gratitude and left that scrap metal alone. We all became accomplices in the same crime, but it was me who told “to hell with it!”.
Why? Maybe, because I didn't forget everything?
Because the traces of what had happened came back to me? Because they were trying to escape the cellars of conscience where I'd locked them, seeping into my dreams, taking me completely unprepared?
I prevented myself from remembering, since whatever happened was incredibly scary – and probably forbidden. And when the Dark Ones started descending into Metro using the airlock we left open… That's when I felt really uncomfortable.
That old geezer who's supposedly writing a book about me… I gave him a rather complete account of my dreams, describing some of the nightmares in detail. Still, I never talked to him about the vision that visited me much more often than any other. Maybe that's because I always suspected it might have not been a dream.
…The huge dog jumps at me, aiming its yellow fangs directly at my throat. The others are ready to join in as soon as the leader drops me. I'm going to die within seconds, my time has run out.
The dog goes limp in the middle of its jump and drops to the ground like a rag doll. The other dogs tuck their tails, whine and crawl back... I turn around and freeze.
There's a huge black shadow standing right behind my shoulder. Incredible, indescribable terror envelops me – then I feel something on my head... a palm?
A second passes, then another – I'm trying to wrestle away, but the long and incredibly strong fingers securely hold my head. I understand: this is the end.
Then the pain and fear suddenly fade away like a lump of sugar in a cup of tea.
The dogs are running, one of them shits itself, the other convulses uncontrollably. But I no longer care for the dogs. Abandoning my attempts to get away from the grip of the black hand, I raise my eyes slowly and gaze upon the mysterious creature holding my soul at the palm of its hand.
The Dark One…
It is humanoid and is way higher than even the
highest of the adults I've seen. Its skin is darker than a darkest night and its unblinking round eyes are jet black, too. And yet they contain much more wisdom than many those blessed with whites of the eyes.
There's no doubt it's no beast, no monster.
A human stands before me.
And stares right into me with his strange eyes. He sees everything: the Botanical Gardens of the past I longed to enter and that of the present which I'd almost entered... He sees the colorful ice-cream stand, the queue, the small clouds speeding across the sky, the mandarin ducks in the pond and my mother. He sees her death, sees me wondering along the empty tunnels, my sadness and my loneliness, my inability to grow attached to another of my kind.
He sees a Dark One, a strange, little and clumsy one. A strangely colored one. A stranger in this land and the whole wide world. Abandoned and unable to reach out for anyone. An orphan.
And he pities me. Sympathizes with me and blesses me…
For a tiny little moment, instead of his imposing dark silhouette, I see…
Mother. She is smiling, whispering something tender to me and stroking my hair. She hands me an ice-cream. The leaves above our heads rustle in the wind, the silver clouds float in the sky, and people around us laugh happily... Everything is just the way it was that day.
When I came to, I could not recall her face anymore, and I never saw it in any of my dreams ever since. Though I know for sure that the Dark One did show it to me. That moment it even seemed to me that he did not simply make an image of her face, did not put a mask of her to entertain me, but... As if he channeled her very essence for a moment, allowing her to actually incarnate within him for a few seconds – for one short date with her son. That's supposedly what the mediums do for the summoned spirits.
I felt... adopted. And then I was alone again.
The only words of farewell I felt were “You are the first...”.
But when I returned home, the happening did not leave a deeper trace in my memory than a magic dream does after you wake up. Quite soon it was completely forgotten. Or, at least, that's what I thought.
– Why are you smiling?! – asked Eugene with suspicion.
I didn't know myself.
When the Dark Ones recalled about me again, I was twenty-four. It was way too late – the humans already did bring me up their way. Hearing stories of the awful beasts breaking into our home from the surface and devouring our guards alive, killing the friends of my stepfather, the fathers of my friends, I suspected that somewhere in my childhood something really bad happened. I thought the dreams that sometimes reminded me of that, are to be chased away. I thought that since the Dark Ones can control the grown-ups like a puppeteer controls a glove puppet, gutting a kid's mind would be as easy for them as snapping their fingers.
I wanted to run from the Exhibition exactly because the fragments of that fateful night would still sometimes surface in my conscience. Because I was afraid of the Dark Ones turning me into a puppet one night to kill my sleeping friends or the military leaders of the station.
Hunter thought I had a natural immunity against the powers of the Dark Ones. The truth was that I was inoculated – I was bearing a fragment of their soul within mine, that's why I didn't feel pain or fear whenever they tried talking to me. I was immune because they already were inside me. But if I ever told Hunter about it, he'd strangle me on the spot despite his long lasting friendship with my stepfather. I'd gladly kill myself, if I was brave enough.
But I was a coward and I ran. I accepted Hunter's task just for that. I thought I'd hide from the Dark Ones, escape my fate. And when I got brave enough, I only had enough courage to shit their voices within me with an MLRS salvo.
I always was a coward and I remained a coward.
* * *
The canon of the legend of Artyom says that the Dark Ones tried talking to our hero when the missiles were already in flight.
Why do I keep telling about that?
To shrug some of the responsibility? To make the whole world and, consequently, myself believe that I could not have changed anything? That it was already too late when I understood?
Yes. They say that if you tell lies long enough you start believing them yourself…
That's my only hope. What else?
I understood everything before the coordinates of the “city” of the Dark Ones were transmitted. The Dark Ones told me they came in peace, that they wanted to build a symbiotic relationship with us, that they wanted to understand us but were unable to reach understanding with the remnants of humanity hiding in their holes. They told me that my true destiny was to become a link between the two species and to stop the fray.
I usually stress the last point, so that the legend becomes open-ended and everyone interprets it depending on how bitter he is. Most people just think the Dark Ones were trying to control me in order to avert their destruction. The doubtful ones make an assumption that the Dark Ones were probably not going to eat every last one of us. And I... I wash my hands.
This is all true, but there was more to it.
The first thing I saw in the tower was her face. The face of my mother.
I know they've shown it to me not as a bargaining chip. It was... Something like a greeting... Their prodigal son stopped hiding and came into the open, unclenching his fists – and they greeted him with open hands. That's what it was.
And then they gave me that long lost day again – though this time it happened not just for the vicinity of the Botanical Gardens, but for the whole world. Standing at the observation desk of the Ostankino tower I was entranced by the view – I did not see the city depopulated by war and plague, the dead shells of the buildings and spilled guts of the streets. I saw Moscow living, brimming with life!
I'm sure they've shown it to me not just because I wanted to see it for so long. They meant to say that together we could bring all that back. Together.
And I still had a chance to stop it all. I had a minute. I could explain everything to my comrades, I could push the transmitter off the tower, I could do anything!
And what DID I do? I washed my hands.
The target coordinates were computed and reported, they were entered in the ballistic computer and the launch buttons were pushed… All by other people. I was not guilty of any of it – I just stood there and watched. Then I descended from the tower and got my hero's welcome.
* * *
I can't recall her face anymore.
There's only one thing left for me now – go back to the site. I went there yesterday, and the day before, and two days before – all the last year. I'm going there now, I'll go there tomorrow.
It's not a rite, it's not my job and not my duty.
It's just that something inside me pushes me there every morning, some vague longing makes me don the heavy protective gear, demand that the guards open the airlock, climb up the escalator from fifty meters below the ground, drag myself along the empty streets – all just to get here.
This place used to be called the Botanical Gardens.
Now it's just soot and ashes and only the plastic bags float above this charred plot of land. Even after we all die out – I give humanity around 200 years more at the best – the bags are still going to be floating about for several centuries. Perhaps, that's all what will remain of our civilization, of our world – the bags, these indestructible excrements of ours. A fitting memory of lowly us.
I have quite a lot of free time now – about an eternity, so there was plenty a chance for me to think everything over. I have a little theory: the Dark Ones were no demons. Quite the opposite, they were an embassy of angels on Earth sent here for our salvation and trial. Should we have proven capable of suppressing the beast within ourselves, of seeing the white feathers beneath their jet-black exterior, find a way of understanding them despite the pain and disgust – we'd have passed the test and received forgiveness for the sin of destroying the world we didn't create.
We were incapable of such a feat.
I was. I alone!
Thus I, as if cursed, am walking to the place of my eternal vigil – to the Gardens. It's neither a punishment nor penance. I just can't live without doing this, though I can't understand why. I don't even want to think of the reasons.
I keep digging in the ashes with a long stick, keep picking up the pieces of molted metal. I might have gone through all of this accursed field already and, without noticing it or finding anything, just started all over again. Then again.
What am I looking for?
METRO 2033: The Gospel According to Artyom. (A link to Metro 2034). Page 2