Night Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “One, two, three, four, five . . . ,” I muttered into the microphone, gazing into the camera lens at the same time. The electronic circuits pondered for a few seconds, then a green light came on above the door.

  There was no one in the first room, where the server’s cooling fans were humming gently. The air conditioners built into the wall were huffing and puffing, but it was still hot in there. And spring had only just begun . . .

  I didn’t go into the system analysts’ lab, just walked straight through into my own office. It wasn’t all my own. Anatoly, my deputy, worked here too. Sometimes he lived here, spending the nights on the old leather sofa.

  When I came in he was sitting at his desk, thoughtfully inspecting an old motherboard.

  “Hi,” I said, sitting down on the sofa. The disc was burning my hands.

  “It’s a goner,” Tolik said gloomily.

  “Trash it then.”

  “Let me just take its brain out first.” Tolik was thrifty, a habit acquired from years of working in state-financed institutions. We had no problems with finances, but he carefully stockpiled all the old hardware anyway, even if it were of no use to anyone. “Would you believe it, I’ve been fiddling around with this for half an hour, and it’s still dead . . .”

  “It’s an outdated antique; why waste time fiddling around with it? Even the machines in accounting are more modern.”

  “I could give it to someone . . . Maybe I should take the cache out too . . .”

  “Tolik, we’ve got an urgent job to do,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Uh-huh! Look . . .” I held up the disc. “This is a dossier . . . a complete dossier on four members of the Watch, including the boss.”

  Tolik opened the drawer of his desk, stuck the motherboard in it, and fixed his eyes on the disc.

  “Precisely. I’m going to check three of them. And you’re going to check the fourth . . . me.”

  “So what are we checking for?”

  “This,” I said, holding up my printout from the briefing. “It’s possible that one of the suspects may be carrying out sporadic killings of Dark Ones. Unauthorized killings. All the known incidents are listed here. We have to either eliminate this possibility, or . . .”

  “Ah, so it really is you who’s killing them, then?” Tolik asked. “Pardon my sense of humor.”

  “No. But don’t take my word for it. Let’s get on with the job.”

  I didn’t even look at the information about me, just downloaded all eight hundred megabytes into Tolik’s computer and took the disc.

  “Shall I tell you if I come across anything really interesting?” Tolik asked. I glanced across at him as he looked through the text files, tugging on his left ear and clicking regularly with his mouse.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “Okay.”

  I started my reading of the dossier with the materials on the boss. First came the introductory blurb—then background information. Every line I read made me break out in a sweat.

  Of course, even this dossier didn’t give the boss’s real name and origins. Facts like that weren’t kept on file anywhere for Others of his rank. But even I was still making new discoveries every second. Starting with the fact that the boss was older than I’d thought. At least a hundred and fifty years older. And that meant he’d been personally involved in drawing up the Treaty between Light and Darkness. It struck me as interesting that all the other magicians still surviving from that time held positions in the central office and weren’t stuck in the exhausting and tedious post of a regional director.

  Aside from that, I recognized a few of the aliases the boss had used in the history of the Watch, and where he was born. We’d wondered about that sometimes, and even placed bets on it, always pointing to “indisputable” proof. But somehow no one had ever suspected that Boris Ignatievich was born in Tibet.

  And even in my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined whose mentor he had been!

  The boss had been working in Europe since the fifteenth century. From indirect references, I speculated that this change of residence was because of a woman. I could even guess who it was.

  I closed the file and looked at Tolik. He was watching some kind of video. Of course, my biographical details had proved less fascinating than the boss’s. I glanced at the small moving picture and blushed.

  “For the first incident you have a cast-iron alibi,” Tolik said without turning round.

  “Listen . . .” I was lost for words.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll fast-forward it, to check the entire night . . .”

  I imagined what the recording would look like at high speed and turned away. I’d always suspected the boss kept tabs on his colleagues, especially the young ones. But not that literally!

  “The alibi won’t be that solid,” I said. “I’ll get dressed and go out any moment now.”

  “I see that,” Tolik confirmed.

  “And I’ll be gone for almost an hour and a half. I was looking for champagne . . . and while I was looking, I sobered up a bit in the fresh air. Started wondering if it was worth going back.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Tolik. “You watch the boss’s private life.”

  Half an hour later, I realized Tolik was right. Maybe I had good reason to feel offended by the observers’ brazen intrusion. But Boris Ignatievich was as monitored as I was.

  “The boss has an alibi,” I said. “Indisputable. For two incidents he has four witnesses. And for one—almost the entire Watch.”

  “Was that the hunt for that Dark One who went crazy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, in theory, you could have killed the Dark Ones. Quite easily. And I’m sorry about this, Anton, but every one of the killings happened when you were in an excited state; not completely in control of yourself.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “I believe you. What shall I do with the file?”

  “Delete it.”

  Tolik thought for a while.

  “I don’t have anything valuable on here. I think I’ll run a low-level format. The disc’s long overdue for a clean-out.”

  “Thanks.” I closed the dossier on the boss. “That’s it, I’ll deal with the others myself.”

  “Gotcha,” said Tolik as he overcame the computer’s righteous indignation and it began digesting itself.

  “Go check on our staff,” I suggested. “And look stern for a change. I’m sure they’re playing patience in there.”

  “All in a day’s work, I suppose.” Tolik agreed willingly enough. “When will you be through here?”

  “In about two hours.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  He went off to our “girls,” two young programmers who basically dealt with the Watch’s official activity. I continued working. Semyon was next up.

  Two and a half hours later I tore my eyes away from the computer, massaged the back of my neck with my palms—it always cramps up when I sit there hunched over the monitor like that—and turned on the coffee machine.

  Neither the boss, nor Ilya, nor Semyon fitted the role of an unhinged killer of Dark Ones. They all had alibis—and some of them were absolutely rock solid. For instance: Semyon had managed to spend the entire night of one of the murders in negotiation with the top management of the Day Watch. Ilya had been on assignment in Sakhalin—they’d screwed things up so badly over there that they’d needed help from the central office . . .

  I was the only one left under suspicion.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Tolik, but I went through the data again anyway. It was all very neat. Not a single alibi.

  The coffee was disgusting, sour; the filter couldn’t have been changed for ages. I gulped down the hot swill, gazing at the screen, then took out my cell phone and dialed the boss’s number.

  “Yes, Anton.”

  He always knew who was calling him.

  “Boris Ignatievich, only one of the four can be suspected.”

 
; “Which one exactly?”

  The boss’s voice was dry and official. But somehow I suddenly got this image of him sitting semi-naked on a leather couch, with a glass of champagne in one hand and Olga’s hand in the other, holding the phone in place with his shoulder, or levitating it beside his ear . . .

  “Tut-tut,” the boss rebuked me. “You lousy clairvoyant. Who’s under suspicion?”

  “I am.”

  “I see.”

  “You knew it,” I said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There was no need to get me to process that dossier. You could have done it yourself. That means you wanted me to be convinced of the danger.”

  “That could be,” the boss said with a sigh. “What are you going to do, Anton?”

  “Start packing my bag for jail.”

  “Come around to my office. In . . . er . . . in ten minutes.”

  “Okay.” I turned off my phone.

  First I went to see how the girls were doing. Tolik was still there with them, and they were hard at work.

  The Watch didn’t really have any need for these two worthless programmers. Their security clearance was low, so we still had to do almost everything ourselves. But where else could we find work for two sorceresses as weak as these two? If only they’d have agreed to live ordinary lives . . . no, they wanted the romance of working for the Watch . . . So we’d invented jobs for them.

  They mostly just whiled away the time, surfing the Net and playing games; their greatest favorites were the various kinds of patience.

  Tolik was at one of the spare PCs—we had plenty of hardware around the place. Yulia was perched on his knees, twitching the mouse around on its mat.

  “Is that what you call computer skills training?” I asked, gazing at the monsters hurtling around the screen.

  “There’s nothing better than computer games for improving skill with the mouse,” Tolik replied innocently.

  “Well . . . ,” I couldn’t think of any answer.

  It was a long time since I’d played any video games like that. The same went for most other members of the Watch. Killing some evil vermin in a cartoon stopped being interesting once you’d met it face-to-face. Unless, that is, you’d already lived a couple of hundred years and built up huge reserves of cynicism, like Olga . . .

  “Tolik, I probably won’t be back in today,” I said.

  “Aha.” He nodded, without any sign of surprise. None of us have really strong powers of prevision, but we sense little things like that immediately.

  “Galya, Lena, see you later,” I said to the girls. Galya twittered something polite, trying to look entirely absorbed in her work. Lena asked:

  “Can I leave early today?”

  “Of course.”

  We don’t lie to each other. If Lena asks, it means she really needs to leave early. We don’t lie. But sometimes we might just leave something unsaid . . .

  The boss’s desk was in a state of total confusion. Pens, pencils, sheets of paper, printouts of reports, dull, exhausted magic crystals.

  But the crowning glory of this incredible jumble was a lighted spirit lamp, with some white powder roasting over it in a crucible. The boss was stirring it thoughtfully with the tip of his expensive Parker pen, obviously expecting it to produce some kind of effect. But the powder seemed to be doggedly ignoring the heat and his stirring.

  “Here.” I put the disc down in front of the boss.

  “What are we going to do?” Boris Ignatievich asked without even looking up. He wasn’t wearing a jacket; his shirt was crumpled and his tie had slid to one side.

  I stole a glance at the couch. Olga wasn’t in the office, but there was an empty champagne bottle standing on the floor, next to two glasses.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t killed any Dark Ones . . . not these Dark Ones. You know that.”

  “Sure, I know.”

  “But I can’t prove it.”

  “By my reckoning we’ve got two or three days,” said the boss. “Then the Day Watch will bring a formal charge against you.”

  “It wouldn’t take much to arrange a false alibi.”

  “And would you agree to that?” Boris Ignatievich inquired.

  “Of course not. Can I ask one question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where does this information come from? The photos and videos?”

  The boss paused for a moment.

  “I thought that would be it. You’ve seen my dossier, Anton. Was it any less intrusive?”

  “No, I suppose not. That’s why I’m asking. Why do you allow information like that to be gathered?”

  “I can’t forbid it. Monitoring is carried out by the Inquisition.”

  I just managed to bite back the stupid question: “But does it really exist?” My face probably said it all for me anyway.

  The boss continued looking at me for a moment or two as if he were expecting more questions and then went on:

  “Let’s get to the point, Anton. From this moment on you must never be left alone. Maybe you can go to the john on your own, but at all other times—you must have two or three witnesses with you. If we’re lucky there could be another killing.”

  “If I’m really being set up, the killing won’t happen until I’m left without an alibi.”

  “And we’ll make sure you are not left without one,” the boss said, laughing. “What kind of old fool do you take me for?”

  I nodded, still not sure, still not understanding everything.

  “Olga . . .”

  The door in the wall—the one I’d always assumed led into a closet—opened and Olga came in, smiling as she straightened out her hair. Her jeans and blouse sat really tight on her body, the way they do only after a hot shower. Behind her I caught a glimpse of an immense bathroom with a Jacuzzi and a panoramic window right across one wall—it must have been one-way glass.

  “Olya, can you handle this?” the boss asked, obviously meaning something they’d already talked about.

  “On my own? No.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Oh sure, of course I can.”

  “Stand back to back,” the boss ordered.

  I didn’t feel like arguing, but I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew something really serious was about to happen.

  “And both of you open yourselves to me,” Boris Ignatievich demanded.

  I closed my eyes and relaxed. Olga’s back was hot and damp, even through the blouse. A strange sensation, standing there touching a woman who’s just been making love . . . but not with you.

  No, I wasn’t the slightest bit in love with her. Maybe because I remembered her in her non-human form, maybe because we’d become friends and partners so quickly. Maybe because of the centuries that separated her birth from mine: What did a young body mean, when you could see the dust of the centuries in the other person’s eyes? We’d become friends, and nothing more.

  But standing next to a woman whose body still remembers someone else’s caresses, pressing yourself against her—that’s a strange feeling . . .

  “Right, let’s begin . . . ,” said the boss, perhaps a bit too sharply. And then he uttered some words I didn’t understand, in some ancient language that hadn’t been used for thousands of years.

  Flying.

  It really was like flying. As if the ground had slipped away from under my feet and I’d become weightless. An orgasm in free fall, LSD mainlined straight into the bloodstream, electrodes in the subcortical pleasure centers . . .

  I was swept away in a torrent of wild, unadulterated joy that came out of nowhere, and the world dimmed and blurred. I would have fallen, but the power streaming out of the boss’s raised hands held Olga and me up on invisible strings, making us arch over and press ourselves against each other.

  And then the strings got tangled up.

  “I’m sorry, Anton,” said Boris Ignatievich, “but we didn’t have any time for hesitation and explanations.”

 
I didn’t answer. I was dumbfounded, sitting there on the floor and staring at my hands, at those slim fingers with the two silver rings, at my legs—those long, shapely legs still damp after my bath, in jeans that were clinging too tight, at the blue and white sneakers on my little feet.

  “It’s not for long,” the boss said.

  “What the . . . ,” I almost swore, jerking forward and trying to jump to my feet, but the sound of my voice made me cut my oath short. A low, vibrant, soft woman’s voice.

  “Calm down, Anton.” The young man standing beside me reached out his hand and helped me up.

  If not for that, I’d probably have fallen over. My center of balance had completely changed. I was shorter, and the world looked quite different . . .

  “Olga?” I asked, looking at what used to be my face. My partner, now the inhabitant of my body, nodded. Totally confused, I gazed into her . . . into my face and I saw I hadn’t shaved properly that morning. And there was a little, angry red pimple on my forehead that would have done credit to any teenage slob going through puberty.

  “Calm down, Anton. It’s the first time I’ve ever swapped sexes too.”

  Somehow I believed her. Despite her great age, Olga might never have found herself in this particular ticklish situation before.

  “Have you got your bearings now?” the boss asked.

  I looked myself over again, first raising my hands to my face and then looking at my reflection in the glass doors of the shelves.

  “Let’s go,” said Olga, tugging at my arm. “Just one moment, Boris . . .” Her movements were as uncertain as mine. Maybe she was even less steady. “Light and Darkness, how do you men walk?” she suddenly exclaimed.

  It was then that the irony of the situation struck me and I started laughing. They’d hidden me, the target of the Dark Side’s plot, in a woman’s body. In the body of the boss’s lover, who was as old as the hills.

  Olga literally pushed me into the bathroom—I couldn’t help feeling quite pleased I was so strong—and bent me down over the Jacuzzi. Then she squirted a jet of cold water straight into my face from the shower head she’d left lying ready on the soft-pink ceramic surface.

  I snorted and twisted free of her grip, suppressing the urge to smack Olga—or was it me, really?—across the face. The motor reflexes of this other body seemed to be coming awake.