The Nightwatch

  "All right." The surprise was still there in Svetlana's eyes, but she nodded in agreement. "Are you sure it's not worth waiting for Anton?"

  "Absolutely," I said, quite sincerely. "Shall we take a car?"

  "Aren't you driving today?"

  Fool!

  I'd completely forgotten that Olga's favorite mode of transport was the sports car the boss had given her as a present.

  "That's what I meant—shall we drive?" I asked, realizing I looked like a complete idiot.

  Olga nodded. That puzzled look in her eyes was getting stronger and stronger.

  At least I knew how to drive. I'd never been tempted by the dubious pleasure of owning a car in a megalopolis with lousy roads, but our training had included all sorts of things. Some things had been taught the ordinary way; some things had been beaten into our heads by magic. I'd been taught how to drive like a simple human being, but if I suddenly happened to find myself in the cabin of a helicopter or a plane, then reflex responses I couldn't even remember in an ordinary state would kick in. At least, in theory they ought to kick in.

  I found the car keys in the purse. The orange sports car was standing in the parking lot in front of the building, under the watchful eye of the security guards. The car's doors were locked, but since the top was down that was fairly ridiculous.

  "Will you drive?" asked Svetlana.

  I nodded without saying anything, then got into the driver's seat and started the engine. I remembered that Olga always took off like a bullet, but I didn't know how to do that.

  "Olga, there's something wrong with you," said Svetlana, finally deciding to say what was on her mind. I nodded as I drove out onto Leningrad Prospect.

  "Sveta, we'll talk when we get to your place."

  I'm no hotshot driver. We were driving a long time, a lot longer than we ought to have been. But Svetlana didn't ask any more questions; she sat there, leaning back in her seat and looking straight ahead. Maybe she was meditating, or maybe she was trying to look through the Twilight. Several times in the traffic jams, guys tried to hit on us from their cars—always the most expensive models, though. Apparently the way we looked and the car we were in drew attention. Windows were wound down; heads with crew cuts were stuck out, sometimes with a hand clutching a cell phone, as a universal badge of status. At first I just found it annoying. Then it started to seem funny. By the end I wasn't reacting to any of it any longer, just like Svetlana.

  I wondered if Olga found these attempts to get to know her amusing…

  She probably did. After spending decades in non-human form, after being imprisoned in a glass showcase…

  "Olya, why did you bring me away? Why didn't you want me to wait for Anton?"

  I shrugged. I was sorely tempted to answer: "Because he's sitting right here beside you." The chances were pretty slim that we were being observed. The car was protected by spells too; I could sense some of them, some of them went beyond the level of my powers.

  But I restrained myself.

  Svetlana hadn't taken the course on information security yet; it comes three months into the training. I think it would make good sense to put it in earlier, but a specific program has to be designed for each individual Other, and that takes time.

  Once Svetlana had been through the fiery crucible of that ordeal, she'd know when to keep quiet and when to speak. They just start feeding you information, strictly measured, in a specific sequence. Some of what you hear is true, and some of it's false.

  They tell you some of it quite freely and openly, and some of it under a terrible oath of secrecy. And some of it you find out "accidentally," by eavesdropping or spying.

  And then everything you've learned starts to ferment inside you, making you feel pain and fear, pushing and straining so hard to break out you think your heart's going to burst, demanding some immediate, irrational reaction. In the lectures they tell you all sorts of nonsense you don't really need to know to live as an Other, while the most important training and testing is taking place in your soul.

  It's rare for anyone to have a serious breakdown. It's only training, after all, not a test. And the height set for every individual is no higher than he can jump—provided he calls on every last ounce of his strength, leaving scraps of blood-stained skin behind on the razor wire along the top of the barrier.

  But when the people in the course matter to you, or even if you simply like them, it starts getting to you, tearing you apart. You catch a strange glance cast in your direction and start wondering what your friend has just learned in the course. What truths? What lies?

  And what the student is learning about himself or herself, about the world around him, his parents and friends…

  And you have a terrible, unbearable yearning to help. To explain, to hint, to prompt.

  But no one who's been through the course will ever give way to that desire. Because that's what they're learning through their own pain and suffering—what to say and when.

  Generally speaking, we can and should say everything. We just have to choose the right time, otherwise the truth can be worse than a lie.

  "Olya?"

  "You'll understand soon," I said. "Just wait a while."

  I glanced through the Twilight and hurled the car forward, flitting neatly between a clumsy jeep and a military truck. The mirror cracked as it folded back after clipping the edge of the truck—I didn't care. Our car was first across the intersection, tearing out onto the Highway of Enthusiasts.

  "Does he love me?" Svetlana suddenly asked. "Does he, yes or no? You must know, don't you?"

  I shuddered and the car swerved, but Svetlana took no notice. I sensed it wasn't the first time she'd asked that question. She and Olga must have left a difficult conversation unfinished.

  "Or does he love you?"

  That was it. I couldn't keep quiet any longer.

  "Anton is very fond of Olga," I said, speaking of myself and the owner of my body in the third person. It was a bit artificial, but it gave an impression of cool, distant politeness. "Comrades in combat. Nothing more than that."

  If she asked Olga how she felt about me, it would be harder to avoid lying.

  Svetlana didn't ask. And a moment later she touched my hand, as if she were asking me to forgive her.

  But now I couldn't stop myself asking:

  "Why do you ask?"

  She answered simply, without hesitation:

  "I don't understand. Anton is behaving very strangely. Sometimes he seems to be madly in love with me. And sometimes it's as if I'm just one of hundreds of Others that he knows. A comrade in arms."

  "A destiny node," I said briefly.

  "What?"

  "You haven't studied that yet, Sveta."

  "Explain it to me, then!"

  "You know," I said, driving the car faster and faster—that must have been the body's motor reflexes kicking in—"you know, when he came to your place that first time…"

  "I know that I was influenced. He told me," Svetlana interrupted.

  "That's not the point. The suggestion was removed when you were told the truth. But when you learn to see destiny—and you'll learn to see it a lot more clearly than I do—then you'll understand."

  "They told us that destiny is variable."

  "Destiny is polyvariable. But when he came to see you, Anton knew that if he succeeded in his assignment, he would fall in love with you."

  Svetlana didn't answer that. I thought I saw her cheeks color slightly, but maybe that was just the wind in the open car.

  "And what difference does that make?"

  "Do you know what it's like to be condemned to love?"

  "But isn't it always like that?" Svetlana asked, trembling with indignation. "When people love each other, when they find each other out of thousands and millions of people. It's always destiny!"

  Once again I sensed that infinitely naive girl in her, the girl who couldn't hate anything except herself. The girl who was already beginning to disappear.

  "No,
Sveta, haven't you ever heard love compared to a flower?"

  "Yes."

  "A flower can be grown, Sveta. But it can be bought too, or given as a gift."

  "Did Anton buy it?"

  "No," I said, a bit too sharply. "It was a gift. From destiny."

  "What difference does that make? If it is love?"

  "Sveta, cut flowers are beautiful, but they don't live for long. They're already dying, even the ones that are carefully placed in a crystal vase and given fresh water."

  "He's afraid of loving me," Svetlana said thoughtfully. "Isn't he? I wasn't afraid, because I didn't know all this."

  I drove up to the building, weaving between the parked cars, mostly Zhigulis and Moskviches. This wasn't a prestigious district.

  "Why did I tell you all that?" asked Svetlana. "Why did I make you answer? Just because you're four hundred forty-three years old?"

  I shuddered when I heard that number. Yes, a real wealth of experience. An immense wealth. Next year Olga would be celebrating a very magical kind of birthday.

  I'd like to believe my body would still be in such beautiful physical condition, even at a quarter of that age.

  I left the car without putting on the alarm. No human being would ever think of trying to steal it in any case: The protective spells provide greater security than any alarm system. Svetlana and I walked briskly up the steps without speaking and went into her apartment.

  Things had changed a bit, of course. Svetlana had left her job, but her study grant and the initial allowance paid to every Other when they are initiated came to far more than her modest earnings as a doctor. She had a new TV; what I couldn't understand was when she found the time to watch it. It was a flashy widescreen model, too big for her apartment. I found this sudden yen for the good life amusing. It's something everyone goes through at the beginning—probably a defensive reaction. When your world crumbles around you, when the old fears and anxieties disappear and new ones, still vague and unfamiliar, take their place, everyone starts acting out some of the dreams from their former life that seemed so unreal only recently. Some go on a spree in restaurants, some buy an expensive car, some buy themselves haute-couture outfits. It doesn't last for long, and not just because working in the Watch won't make you a millionaire. The very needs that seemed so compelling only yesterday begin to fade away, disappearing into the past. Forever.

  "Olga?"

  Svetlana looked into my eyes.

  I sighed, gathering my strength.

  "I couldn't tell you earlier. We can only talk here. Your apartment is protected against observation by the Dark Ones."

  I could see that Svetlana already suspected the truth.

  "This is only Olga's body," I said.

  "Anton?"

  I nodded.

  The two of us must have looked really absurd!

  It was a good thing Svetlana was already used to absurdity.

  She believed me straight away.

  "You bastard!"

  Spoken in a tone that would have suited the aristocratic Olga. And the slap to my face came from the same opera libretto.

  It didn't hurt, but it upset me.

  "What's that for?" I asked.

  "For eavesdropping on other peoples' conversations!" Svetlana snapped.

  It wasn't a very precise way of putting it, but I got the idea. When Svetlana raised her other hand, I ignored the Christian teaching and dodged the second slap.

  "Sveta, I promised to take care of this body!"

  "I didn't!"

  Svetlana breathed heavily, biting her lip. Her eyes were blazing. I'd never seen her in such a fury, never even suspected it was possible. Just what was it that had made her so furious?

  "So, you're afraid to love cut flowers?" said Svetlana, slowly advancing on me. "That's your problem, is it?"

  I got the idea. But it took a moment or two.

  "Get out of here! Get out!"

  I backed away until I ran into the door. But the moment I stopped, Svetlana stopped too. She jerked her head to one side and yelled:

  "Stay in that body! It suits you better; you're not a man, you're a spineless wimp!"

  I didn't answer. I didn't say a word, because I could already see the way things would go. I could see the lines of probability stretching out ahead of us, see destiny derisively weaving its pathways together.

  And when Svetlana burst into tears, instantly robbed of all her fighting spirit, and lowered her face into her hands, when I put my arm around her shoulders and she sobbed in relief on my shoulder, I felt cold and empty inside. The cold was piercing, as if I were back standing on a snow-covered roof in a blustery winter wind.

  Svetlana was still human. There wasn't enough of the Other in her yet; she didn't understand, she couldn't see the road leading off into the distance, the road we were destined to follow. And so she couldn't see how that road divided in two, running off in different directions.

  Love is happiness, but only when you believe it will last forever. Even though every time it turns out to be a lie, it's only faith that gives love its strength and its joy.

  Svetlana was sobbing on my shoulder.

  Great knowledge brings great sorrow. How I wished I didn't know the inevitable future! I wished I didn't know it, and I just could love her without thinking twice about it, like an ordinary, mortal human being.

  And what a pity it was that I wasn't in my own body.

  To any outsider it might have looked like two women who were close friends had decided to spend a quiet evening in front of the TV with tea with jam. Drinking a bottle of dry wine and chatting about those three eternal subjects: All men are bastards, I've nothing to wear, and the most important of all—how to lose weight.

  "You really like bread rolls, don't you?" Svetlana asked in surprise.

  "Yes. With butter and jam," I replied morosely.

  "I thought someone promised to take care of that body?"

  "I'm not doing it any harm! Believe me, it's having a really great time."

  "Well now," Svetlana said vaguely, "you ask Olga afterward how she takes care of her figure."

  I hesitated, but went ahead and cut another roll in half, then spread it generously with jam.

  "And whose brilliant idea was it to hide you in a woman's body?"

  "The boss's, I think."

  "I thought it must be."

  "Olga supported him."

  "I should think so. She worships the very ground Boris Ignatievich walks on."

  I had my doubts about that, but I kept quiet about them. Svetlana got up and went over to the wardrobe, opened it, and looked thoughtfully at the hangers.

  "Will you put on a robe?"

  "What?" I said, choking on my roll.

  "Are you going to sit around in the house like that? Those jeans are bursting on you. It must be uncomfortable."

  "Can't you find something like a sweat suit?" I asked pitifully.

  Svetlana gave me a mocking glance and then took pity.

  "I suppose I might."

  To be quite honest, I'd rather have seen that combination on someone else. On Svetlana, for instance. Brief little white shorts and a blouse. For playing tennis, or maybe for jogging.

  "Get changed."

  "Sveta, I don't think we're going to spend the whole evening in the apartment."

  "Never mind. It'll be useful anyway; I need to check that the size is right. You get changed and I'll go and make some tea."

  Svetlana went out and I hurriedly pulled off the jeans. I started unbuttoning the blouse, fumbling with the funny little buttons that were too tight, and then glared balefully at myself in the mirror.

  A good-looking girl, that was for sure. A good model. I put the new clothes on in a hurry and sat down on the couch. There was a soap opera on the TV—I was amazed Svetlana watched this junk. But then, the others were probably showing the same stuff.

  "You look great."

  "Don't, Sveta, please," I begged her. "I feel sick enough already."

&nb
sp; "Okay, I'm sorry," she said lightly, sitting down beside me. "So what have we got to do?"

  "We?" I asked with gentle emphasis.

  "Yes, Anton. You didn't come here by chance."

  "I had to tell you about the mess I'm in."

  "Okay. But if the boss…"—Svetlana managed to pronounce the word "boss" with real relish, with respect and irony at the same time—"… has allowed you to confide in me, that means I have to help you. It must be the will of destiny." She couldn't resist putting that in.

  I gave in.

  "I mustn't be left alone. Not for a moment. The basis of the whole plan is that the Dark Ones are deliberately sacrificing their own pawns—either killing them or allowing them to die."

  "Like the other time?"

  "Yes. Precisely. And if this provocation is directed at me, there's going to be another killing any time now. At some moment when they think I don't have an alibi."

  Svetlana looked at me with her chin propped on her hands and slowly shook her head.

  "And then you'll jump out of this body like a jack out of his box. And it'll be clear that you couldn't have carried out these serial killings. The enemy is confounded."

  "Uh-huh."

  "I'm sorry, I haven't been in the Watch for long; maybe there's something I don't understand."

  That put me on my guard. Svetlana hesitated for a second and then went on:

  "When all those things happened to me, what was going on? The Dark Ones were hoping to initiate me. They knew Night Watch would notice; they even figured out that you could possibly intervene and help."

  "Yes."

  "That was why they played out that complex maneuver, sacrificing a few pieces and building up false positions of strength. And to begin with, Night Watch was taken in. If the boss hadn't launched his counter-maneuver, if you hadn't gone charging straight in, taking no notice of anything…"

  "You'd be my enemy now," I said. "You'd be studying with the Day Watch."

  "That's not what I meant, Anton. I'm grateful to you, and to everyone in Night Watch, above all to you. But that's not what I'm talking about right now. Surely you understand that what you've just told me sounds about as probable as that story did? Everything fit together so neatly, didn't it? A pair of vampires poaching. A boy with exceptional powers. A woman under a powerful curse. A massive threat to the entire city."