Dusk in Kalevia

by Emily Compton

  “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

  “What about Bear?” Demyan asked, going for it. Sometimes people responded to the direct approach. Element of surprise and all that.

  “Who the hell is Bear?”

  “Don’t you have any friends with a nickname like Bear? I could have sworn...”

  “Jumalauta...” Vesa cursed under his breath. “What are you talking about?”

  He’d been too bold. Vesa’s name had been a clue, but perhaps his counterpart was different. Demyan couldn’t tell from the glimpses of Vesa’s memory alone, but it seemed likely that this mystery girl was important. If she was the bear foretold in the stars, he needed to find her without delay.

  He realized Vesa was looking at him funny.

  “Who even are you, anyway?” the boy finally asked.

  “Your bodyguard, for the moment.”

  “Mika was my bodyguard. You’re just...” Vesa narrowed his eyes.

  “Did I forget to introduce myself?” Demyan grinned over his shoulder. “Demyan Chernyshev.”

  The light turned red. As Demyan stared out the window at the car that had edged up beside them, trying to think of the best approach to the problem of Vesa, he felt a creeping unease worm its way into his thoughts. Something was off, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  That blue car.

  A jolt of panic raced up the back of his neck. It had been following them for most of the drive. He had seen it in the rearview mirror, but his focus had been on Vesa’s mind--and all the time it had been right there, waiting...

  He reached for his pistol as the passenger door of the car burst open.

  He heard Vesa shout in alarm, and his brain screamed Drive! but there was no time; in the dreamlike blur of movement that followed, he saw nothing but the barrel of the Sten submachine gun pointing down at him.

  It was louder than expected--fireworks at close range, and the crack of ordinary window glass. The bullets tore through him, through his hand as it closed on the grip of his Makarov, through his chest and his shoulder. He tried to call out to Vesa, but found he could no longer breathe.

  It was too late; he was frozen, pinned to the seat by white-hot daggers, burning from the inside out. He could feel himself going down, his heart’s dam breached, his human aspect draining in a hot stream down the front of his suit.

  As his vision vanished down a dark tunnel, the last thing he saw was a writhing Vesa being dragged from the car, a gag forced between his lips and a sack pulled over his head.

  **

  Thump...thump...

  Demyan woke in darkness. Unable to move or speak, his senses absent, it was as if he had found himself trapped in the center of a stone. Everything was cold and very, very still, save for a small drumbeat far off in the black. As he struggled fruitlessly against his claustrophobic prison, he felt the drum grow stronger and realized that it was only his heart, remembering how to beat again.

  He was both horrified and relieved to discover that he was still inside his human body. He’d been shot--he remembered that now--and it had been bad. Though he’d been wounded in the line of duty before, those injuries had been nothing compared to this state of dead-not dead, his heart struggling to repair itself enough to reanimate his flesh. Awake but walled-off from the rest of the world, all he could do was relax into the darkness and wait.

  Sensation returned first, burrowing into the searing hollows of his gunshot wounds. He felt muscles contract, a twitch in his hand, nerve fibers reaching for each other across the void in his palm. Cold wind blew on his face, and he gradually noticed the fragments of sound drifting into his brain. When he concentrated, the noises resolved into a conversation of urgent voices, smeared together by his malfunctioning ears.

  “...called the ambulance, but...”

  “...just leave him there for a minute, just...”

  “...backup...”

  “...all over. Damn, this is...”

  With monumental effort, Demyan opened one eye. Animated blurs hovered outside the open car door; before he could parse them, a flash of light assaulted his retina. He cringed, but as the afterimage cleared away he saw that he was surrounded by a number of policemen.

  “H...” Demyan said, and burst into an agonizing coughing fit that caused every officer to leap back in shock. He spat out his mouthful of blood and began again. “Hei.”

  It had a very gratifying effect. One policeman dropped his camera to the pavement. Brown spools of film burst from its back.

  “We thought you were dead!” the policeman squeaked, his voice made comically high by terror.

  “Obviously not.” Demyan wiped the blood from his lips on his coat sleeve.

  “I took your vitals myself!”

  Demyan began to stretch his limbs, investigating their stability. It seemed that for the most part he was no longer paralyzed, but damn, if everything didn’t hurt like hell. With feigned serenity, he rolled his head around his stiff neck and looked up at the young officer.

  “Looks like you were wrong.”

  Using his good hand, Demyan eased himself upright to see if his legs would take his weight. They held him, but just barely.

  “Anyway--what happened to Vesa?” Demyan looked from face to face; they all gawked at him, the blood-covered Lazarus in the ruined car. “What happened to the Chairman’s son?”

  “W-we don’t know yet, sir. It seems he’s been kidnapped.”

  Fat lot of help these fools were. Not only was Vesa at the mercy of a band of armed criminals, but it was only a matter of time before everyone started asking questions. If he stuck around, he was liable to be dragged off to the hospital, and there would be a good deal of explaining to do.

  He looked down at his chest wounds, waging a campaign against every nerve in their vicinity. Once the orderlies started examining this body of his, he doubted even he could make up a plausible explanation for his survival.

  But how to get away...?

  He heard a caw, and his injured heart quickened. On top of a nearby telephone pole perched a few ravens.

  “I could really use some help right now,” he said to the sky.

  One of the birds swooped elegantly down to the pavement, where it began to hop cagily around the legs of the police.

  “The ambulance is going to be here soon,” a policeman assured him.

  “I need to get out of here, comrades.” Demyan stared down at the raven, and it cocked its head at him.

  You’re such a clever bird, he thought. If you do this for me, biscuits all around. All you can eat, I swear. He dragged himself from his bloodstained seat and took one shaking step away from the car.

  “You’re in shock, you need to lie back...” one of the policeman said with impending hysteria in his voice. He reached to restrain Demyan, then screamed as an inky streak launched itself from a nearby sign post and flew at his face.

  It was magnificent how quickly they multiplied, almost appearing out of thin air. The sea of birds was upon them in minutes, blotting out the sky with wings. Demyan heard avian voices laugh above, calling their fellows to the fight.

  As the birds dove and weaved, harrying the terrified policemen around the street, Demyan murmured a quick thank you and made his escape.

  He was lucky. Across the street was a narrow passage--the covered walkway to the courtyard of an old apartment building. Enclosed by walls on all sides, it would provide perfect cover from the eyes of the bystanders, distracted as they were by the avian onslaught. He walked slowly toward the entrance, forcing himself to put one foot in front of the other, his body protesting every step. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep, but he struggled on, knowing that he had to get somewhere safe before he could give in to the temptation.

  He found a door recessed into the wall of the walkway, and rejoiced when it opened with a breath of dank cellar air. He leaned against it, listening to the cacophony of the ravens in the street.

  He was glad he had planned for such a contingency. The S
tate Security building was riddled with his doors, binding all sorts of random, unnoticeable places into his own private transportation network. He had a reputation for turning up suddenly in the oddest places; he’d step out of a broom cupboard or a stairwell, surprising his colleagues with his punctuality. There was always one vital location left unpaired, however, ready to be opened in the event of an emergency. If this didn’t qualify, he didn’t know what would.

  He pressed his hand to the door and pictured the closet in his office.

  When he opened the portal and stumbled inside, he expected to be soothed by the familiar protection of his room. And for a brief moment, he was--he saw the modern rug, the little bust of Lenin, his heavy wooden desk with its orderly arrangement of papers as he’d left them. All was at it should be, save one thing.

  Behind the desk stood Toivo Valonen.

  Chapter 7

  Toivo paced the cell, working out the last aches and pains from the interrogation. It was no longer his body that bothered him, however. His bout with Solas--what was his cover name? Demyan?--had thoroughly disrupted his thoughts.

  Solas incited his emotions in a way he hadn’t experienced in this life. Anger, fear, and something else he couldn’t quite name still stirred inside him. It was as though the hunger that filled the dark angel’s soul had somehow leaked over into his own--a vague, dissatisfied craving, an itch that he could not quite scratch.

  Solas wanted him as a double agent. Toivo was relieved he’d had the strength to fight back.

  He thought momentarily of cool breath whispering in his ear, and he held his head, fighting the mess inside.

  No, that demon’s just trying to manipulate me, he thought. As soon as I’ve served my purpose, he’ll kill me and that will be the end of any good Toivo Valonen can do. He hoped the next time he died, he wouldn’t be dragged back down to Earth for a while...

  There it was again--that faint hint of panic. It was a sense of terrible loss, blurred by the haze of a long period of insubstantial existence. Whatever frightening memory he’d forgotten, Demyan’s presence seemed to draw it to the edges of his mind.

  No matter, he thought. Whatever had happened back then, he wouldn’t let it happen again.

  He needed to get out of that cell, but how? There were no windows, and only the single door to which his jailors held the key. With no other options, he walked over and tried the handle.

  It opened.

  **

  The air of the maintenance closet was foul with smells from the jugs of cleaning chemicals lining its shelves. Toivo stifled a cough as the caustic miasma invaded his lungs.

  It wasn’t the most comfortable hiding place, but he needed a place to lie low and collect himself as he planned the next phase of his escape. He crouched among the mops and buckets, wrestling himself into the stained coverall he had found hanging on a nail. He wrinkled his nose as he slid the reeking garment on over his bloody clothes, and then sat back on an upturned pail to contemplate his options.

  Getting out of the State Security building was going to be one of the biggest challenges of his power he had ever attempted. He was already exhausted, his power dwindling from keeping up the chameleon act in hostile territory. After navigating the emotional gauntlet of the prison wing, he had found his way into a stairwell, where the only unlocked doors told him nothing of his location within the building. He had eventually wound up here, wondering how long his protective cloak could possibly hold out.

  Why had he been allowed to escape the cell in the first place? Was it possible that Solas had forgotten to lock the door on his way out? Impossible. He wouldn’t make such a careless mistake. This was clearly a message: “Trust me.”

  He heard the click of heels on the linoleum. He cracked the door open to watch as two women approached, their arms laden with cardboard boxes. One of them set her burden down by the elevator and stretched.

  “But really, do you know what’s going on?” she asked her companion. “It’s been madness around here for the past hour, and while the Commander’s out, too...”

  “It’s something the police radioed in--that’s all I know. It’s gotta be something big.”

  “No kidding! Minister Kuoppala called me directly for all these reports--that never happens.”

  “I’ve never been up to his office.”

  “Lucky you. I have,” she giggled, then glanced over her shoulder nervously. “Oh, oh. I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t tell anyone I said that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll denounce you right away, as soon as we deliver these boxes.” They shared a chuckle over this, then the taller one leaned over to her friend. “You should be made of sterner stuff, working in the office of Commander Demyan Chernyshev.” She wiggled her fingers in a spooky gesture.

  Inside the closet, Toivo’s ears pricked up at the name. Demyan?

  “Oh, stop it. He’s not that bad. Especially in the looks department.”

  “Except that you’ll be walking along and then suddenly he’s there behind you, with that soft voice of his. Comes out of nowhere.”

  “Okay, shh, that’s enough, Anja.” She hefted her armful of documents as the elevator opened with a soft chime. “We must be crazy, to talk of them this way. We’ll never make it anywhere in life.”

  “Well, do your duty by these boxes, and maybe someday you’ll make it to Head Clerk.”

  Toivo was torn. On one hand, he wanted to make it out of this blasted building with all possible haste, but on the other, he was tempted to do something rash. If Demyan’s office was indeed close by, he could find out the truth. Demyan had implied some great threat was looming, and it sounded like something had already begun. Toivo’s current plight notwithstanding, wasn’t it more important to save as many people in Kalevia as he could, regardless of their allegiance?

  Affecting his strongest aura of inconspicuousness, he slowly opened the door and slipped out into the hall, staying just out of their view. When he was nearly an arm’s length away from the women, he cleared his throat. They both started violently.

  “Excuse me, but you two work in Commander Chernyshev’s office, correct?”

  A panic-stricken look passed between them, and they stuttered out an affirmative. Toivo peered into their faces, assuring them with his manner that he was a friendly custodian who had heard nothing of their disloyal gossip.

  “Is the office open? I’ve been sent up for some maintenance work, and I need to...”

  “Oh, is that all? Here.” One of them handed him a key on a small leather fob, smiling too broadly with relief. “Just return this when you’re finished.”

  “Thanks.” Toivo took the key from them with a casual smile, his confidence directing their attention away from the bloodstains on his collar.

  The women vanished into the elevator with a titter of laughter, barely giving him a second glance. He marveled at how easily the human mind responded to misdirection, selectively ignoring all that it perceived as familiar. To them, he had simply become part of the environment--background noise, someone they trusted completely to be there.

  Toivo walked down that hall and the next, made bold by his disguise, checking every nameplate until he found Demyan Chernyshev’s. He congratulated himself on his resourcefulness, but his pride was short-lived. As he turned the key in the lock, he heard hurried footsteps approaching and felt an ominous presence--one he’d last experienced before its owner broke his ribs.

  Toivo flattened himself against the wall in a panic, putting every ounce of effort into maintaining invisibility. Please don’t see me, he begged, gripping his broom until his knuckles turned white.

  He held his breath as the interrogator breezed by him, taking no notice of the hardworking custodian sweeping the floors.

  As soon the man was around the corner, Toivo dashed into the office. He ran through the empty room where the typists usually cranked out their coded memos, fumbled with the lock, then wrenched open the second door and dove to the carpet behind Demyan’s desk.<
br />
  He had very nearly been caught, and he knew he was in terrible danger every second he remained. The place was probably crawling with enforcers. Perhaps they had already discovered his escape and were actively searching for him at that very moment.

  He closed his eyes, feeling around for the markers of human souls, but it seemed that his immediate vicinity was deserted. Something had called them all away from their desks; a tension hung in the air, as if the daily grind had been interrupted by the shrill of a fire bell. When nothing broke the eerie silence, he brought himself to peer over the edge of the desk. The coast was, for the time being, clear.

  He told himself he would stay a short time, just enough for a little peek at the contents of Demyan’s files. He gingerly lifted folders from the blotter, taking great care to preserve their original order and positioning. They were mostly reports or profiles of a few non-compliant citizens--nothing much of interest until he chose a folder with a yellow tag marked “urgent” and found his own name on the label.

  There he was in the photo, taken just a few days prior, beside a wealth of physical and behavioral data. He pored over the profile, fascinated with the amount of detail they had been able to obtain from a single entry interview. Do I really blink my eyes that much? Toivo wondered. And do I tend to smile more on the right side when I’m nervous?

  As he read on, a folded paper clipped inside the edge came loose and fell to the floor. After Toivo picked it up and examined it, he discovered it to be some kind of star map. He was baffled--not only by the seeming irrelevance of astronomical charts to covert operatives, but the fact that this one had notes scrawled all over it in a tight, crisp hand. Toivo saw names he didn’t recognize, and words and observations that seemed chosen at random. One name, Vesa, stood out to him, and he remembered the Chairman’s doomed son, target of the Forest Clan’s plot.

  Perhaps this is some sort of code, thought Toivo. How much does he know? A pair of stars near the bottom of the chart drew his eye. One was labeled Solas in pencil, the other Zophiel, and between them, a single word: Together?