METRO 2035. English language edition.: The finale of the Metro 2033 trilogy. (METRO by Dmitry Glukhovsky)

by Dmitry Glukhovsky

  “Our invasion? From Miller?” Dietmar sounded surprised.” There isn’t any invasion. There is unrest at Teatralnaya. We have refugees flooding in. The Führer has ordered the establishment of a peace-keeping mission at the station in order to prevent casualties. But it’s after three in the morning now. He’s sleeping. And he’s not expecting any letters from Mr. Miller. But if you wish you can let me have the dispatch. In the morning I’ll hand it on to him at his secretariat.”

  “Out of the question,” Letyaga prompted in a whisper.” Instructions are to hand the document to him in person or destroy it.”

  “Out of the question!” Artyom repeated in a shout.” To be handed only to the Führer in person!”

  “A great pity,” Dietmar sighed.” The Führer is not receiving anyone. Especially professional cutthroats. Before being handed to him the envelope will in any case be opened and examined to avoid any attempt at poisoning.”

  “I am in possession of information,” Artyom said, bracing himself, “that the events at Teatralnaya are not public unrest, but deliberately planned subversion. Designed to take over the station.”

  “But we are in possession of different information concerning Teatralnaya,” Dietmar responded indifferently.” And not everyone likes it, Mr. Stalker. Including your comrades, for example. Goodbye.”

  He saluted them, swung round, and started striding towards the station.

  “Wait,” Letyaga shouted.” Stop! This envelope isn’t from Miller!”

  Dietmar couldn’t care less. The machine gunner stirred the long sting of his barrel, pointing out the pathway for the lead bullets. The snipers released their spots free, and these spots even pierced through the floodlight’s white light, that was as bright as the first second of death.

  “Do you hear me?” Letyaga roared.” The envelope isn’t from Miller! It’s from Bessolov!”

  The black figure that had almost dissolved into the whiteness froze.

  “Repeat that.”

  “From Bessolov! To the Führer! In person! Urgent!”

  Artyom turned towards Letyaga. There was something going on here that he couldn’t understand. Nigmatullin and Yurets were anxiously mulling over the unfamiliar name. Dietmar didn’t say anything, but he was glued to the spot.

  “Very well. One man will be allowed into the station. The others can wait.”

  Letyaga jerked his massively broad shoulders, accepting the condition. He stepped forward.

  “Not you!” Dietmar stopped him.” Give the dispatch to that boy, Artyom.”

  “I have my orders.”

  “And I have my orders. He’s the only one I’ll let through. And only after he has been searched.”

  “Why him? Artyom, what the hell …”

  “Give me the envelope,” Artyom told him.” Come on, Letyaga, you saw through me. A secret mission. This is what Miller sent me for. In case they wouldn’t let you … I have my own story mixed up in this. You’re not allowed to know. How do you think I found out about Teatralnaya?”

  “Everyone here has his own story, fuck it,” Letyaga growled.” They all hide them from each other. The old paranoiac …”

  “Don’t give it to him. Are you crazy?” Nigmatullin hissed.” Who is he, anyway? The colonel said you should do it … Or we—”

  “Shut your gob, Ruslanchik,” Letyaga told him.” This is Artyom, all right? He’s one of us. Our man! Got that?”

  “As you wish!” said Dietmar, turning cool.” I don’t have any more time for this. I ought to be at Teatralnaya already, handing out humanitarian aid to the population.”

  Letyaga cursed him, spat in annoyance, and pulled a small, brown, thick, opaque envelope out of the pocket over his heart. He handed it to Artyom.

  “This is our man, is that clear?” he yelled to the machine gun, the snipers’ rifles, the spot of laser light, the black stencils, the piss-soaked universe, and the blinding star.” We’ll be waiting here for him!”

  “By all means,” Dietmar responded.” But the Führer can sleep until midday. Wait.”

  “We’ll be waiting, we’ll be here, Artyom,” Letyaga whispered passionately.” You’ll come back. If they harm even a hair on your head … The old man growls at you, of course, but he’ll move mountains for his own men … We be one blood, thou and I?”

  “Right,” said Artyom. He wasn’t hearing much at this stage.” Right, Letyaga. Thanks. I don’t know.”

  And he glued that damned envelope to his skin, went stumbling over the sleepers, and flew towards the supernova, straight into it. Into a billion degrees Celsius.

  * * *

  “Enemies Of The Reich! Enemies Of Mankind! A Horde Of Freaks! Stands At The Gates!”

  There was only one speaker, but he was broadcasting from a dozen loudspeakers lagging slightly behind each other, and so he repeated his words as his own echo; and this chorus of one man’s voice sounded like the voice of a hydra, eerie and mesmerizing. That voice was oozing with venom.

  “If We Do Not Fight To The Last! We Are Threatened With Total Annihilation!”

  The voice reached Artyom before the light of Chekhov-Wagner Station; the light couldn’t bounce off the curved, twisting walls of the tunnel, but the voice could.

  “Having Learned Of The Treacherous Plans Of The Red Line To Violate The Peace Accord! To Seize Teatralnya Station! I! Have Decided To Strike A Preemptive Blow!”

  “The Führer? But you said he was sleeping …” Artyom said to Dietmar.

  “Right now no one in the Reich is sleeping,” Dietmar replied.

  At Chekhov-Wagner Station Artyom was greeted by a long banner: Welcome, Dear Guests From Polis! A file of men of various ages, dressed any old way, was lining up at the center of the hall, gawking with red, sleepless eyes and whispering uncertainly to each other. Junior officers looking like Alsatian dogs scurried along the ranks, shouting, clapping men on the shoulders, and slapping their faces.

  Tables with placards on them were being set up, and heaps of camouflage gear were being tipped onto them. Trolleys of guns were being trundled up, rumbling and clattering. At the far end of the platform a tent with a red cross on it was being set up, and glances from the ranks were repeatedly drawn to it as if to a magnet.

  “But The Red Line Will Stop At Nothing! To Deprive The Citizens Of Teatralnaya Station Of Their Legal Right! To Live A Peaceful And Happy Life!”

  It was a strange station—round-vaulted like a tunnel and with archways like gun slots that had been sawn in the walls. Its white armor glittered brightly, and the lamps—old, genuine ones—had been polished too. They seemed odd not separate from each other, like at the other stations, not simply double or welded together in clusters, but with twenty of them at a time sitting on bronze gondolas in two rows; as if they too had been woken up in the middle of the night and forced to fall into line. And they also looked like the souls of slaves, rowing their fleet galleys through an incredible white tunnel to their honestly earned heaven.

  “Where did you plant the mine?”

  Dietmar was walking fast, and Artyom could barely keep up with him: The faces in the ranks flashed by, and not one of them had time to take on any shape. Behind him, steel heels clattered on the granite as the guards strode along.

  “Down below, I went down the escalator,” Artyom reported.” By the hermetic doors.”

  “Did it bring everything down?”

  “Very thoroughly.”

  “Look here. At present everything at Teatralnaya is under our control, so I want to believe you. But I’ll check, of course. If you did everything correctly, a decoration … An order!” Dietmar chuckled.” You deserve an order for work like that.”

  Suddenly someone rushed out of the line across their path: The guards darted forwards and raised their Kalashnikovs. But it was some small, silly person, harmless: a little beard, steamed-up glasses …

  “Excuse me! Excuse me! Mr. Officer! Mr. Dietmar … In the name of all that’s holy! This is a mistake. I’ve been mobilized by
mistake. I have a wife … Narine … You were just at our home … You’ve come from there.”

  Dietmar remembered, halted, and waved the guards away.

  “Ilya Stepanovich. I’m here with an acquaintance of yours. What’s the mistake?”

  “To Flood The Station With Freaks! That Is What They Want! They Are Enraged! By Our Resistance! And This Horde! Is Already! At Our Gates!

  “My Narine … Her contractions have started. After those explosions at Teatralnaya. They took her into the maternity home. They said the waters could break at any moment … But her time still isn’t … due yet, do you understand? Perhaps with proper bed rest she could … We have such a wonderful maternity home! But if they draft me into the army … Or something happens there … What will she do? Now? Who’ll be with her? And if she gives birth? I have to be there … I must know … What the child is … A boy or …”

  “And For This Reason! I Am Declaring General Mobilization!”

  The Unteroffizier smiled at the teacher and put his hand on his shoulder.

  “As they say, the tsaritsa was delivered of a fright, neither son—right, Ilya Stepanovich?—nor daughter.”

  “Why are you … Why are you saying that?”

  “Good Lord, it’s a joke. I remember our conversation. Of course I do. Let’s take a walk.”

  He made a sign to the junior Alsatians and led Ilya Stepanovich away with his arm round his shoulders. Artyom walked alongside, crumpling the envelope in his pocket. What was in it? The envelope was hard; it had something inside it … What did it remind him of? Not a letter, not paper … His head was splitting with the effort. The spring was running down.

  “You were planning to write a history textbook for us, right?” Dietmar asked the teacher.

  “Mr. Officer … But if … If something happens during the birth …”

  “Then sit down and write it! Start now, right away. History is being made before your very eyes!” He stopped, removed Ilya Stepanovich’s glasses, breathed on them, wiped them, and set them back in place.” I’ll set aside a corner for you in my headquarters. Or else you could get killed, that’s true …”

  “To Defend A Neutral Station Against The Red Hordes! That Is Our Duty! They Have Begged Us For Help! And We Are Coming!”

  “Thank you. I’m very grateful, Mr. Dietmar … But … Allow me to see my wife … Now … To support her … She looked terrible … I want her to know that everything is all right … That you intervened … And if the birth …”

  “But what for?” Dietmar asked him.” There’s nothing that either you or I can change about that. If a healthy child is born, then good. There are people at the maternity home to congratulate the mother in the name of the Party.”

  “But … But what if … Oh damn it … What if, God forbid …”

  “And if it’s a freak … Quiet, now, quiet … Then we have a wonderful maternity home, as you said yourself. General anesthetic. And when she wakes up, it will all have been done. And the little child won’t even feel a thing, believe me. They’re all professionals there. The same anesthetic, only a different dose. Everything humane. One snip and it’s done.

  “Of course … Yes, I understand …” Ilya Stepanovich was ashen-faced.” It’s just that it happened so soon. Her contractions. She was so anxious, my Narine. I thought there would still be time.”

  “And there still will be time, Ilya Stepanovich!” The Unter tightened his grip on the teacher.” What a good time there will be! So there’s absolutely nothing for you to do in the maternity home. That’s all. They’ll give you paper and a pencil. And I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you!” He shoved the dumbstruck teacher towards one of the guards.” Allocate this gentleman space in my office.”

  “No One Will Stop Us! When We Carry Out! Our Sacred Duty!”

  “Where are we going?” Artyom asked in alarm after they had walked almost all the way through the station; it ended at the steps of a pedestrian passage with sentries on guard.

  “Well, you need to deliver this dispatch of yours, don’t you?” Dietmar looked round at him.” What’s in it, by the way? An ultimatum? A plea? A proposal to divide Teatralnaya among the interested parties?”

  “I don’t know,” said Artyom.

  “The Order, eh? Fool that I am, I ought to have guessed exactly what you were doing at Polis, Stalker.”

  “We Shall Always Stand Up For The Rights Of Noncombatant Civilians! We Shall Take Teatralnaya Under Our Protection! We Shall Protect It Against The Hordes Of The Freaks!”

  “Who is Bessolov?”

  “You mean you really don’t have a clue what it is that you want to deliver to the Führer?”

  “That’s none of my business. I’m simply carrying out an order.”

  “I like you more and more. I’d even say that you’re my ideal,” Dietmar laughed.” Tell a man to blow up a passage—and he blows up a passage. Tell him to deliver an envelope containing God only knows what from God only knows whom—and he does it. Tell him to stick his balls in a press and he can’t refuse to do that either! I wish I had more like you!”

  “And We Are Prepared To Pay Any Price For The Right To Be Called Human!”

  “Is Homer alive?” Artyom asked Dietmar.” What’s happened to my old man? Where is he?”

  “He’s alive. And waiting for you,” Dietmar reassured him.

  “I want to collect him first.”

  “Predictable. That’s why we’re going to him now. Another good thing about you, Stalker, is your predictability. It’s a real pleasure working with such people.”

  The sentries ground their heels together, and the commander of the watch threw out his arm, afraid even to look Dietmar in the eye. They started walking up the beveled steps.

  “You … Why do you wear those shoulder straps? You’re no Unteroffizier are you? Who are you?”

  “Me? An engineer of human souls!” Dietmar winked at him.” And a bit of a magician.”

  The passage was used as a barracks. The last time Artyom and Homer had not been allowed in here. There were rows of bunks. Orderlies saluted. The Führer glowered down from posters. The standards of the Iron Legion hung down from the ceiling: a gray fist and a black, three-fingered swastika. Loudspeakers grew out of the walls like mushrooms, trying to outshout each other:

  “There Is No Way Back! And We Shall Not Retreat! For The Sake Of Your Future, For The Sake Of Our Future! For The Sake Of Our Children’s Future! For The Sake Of The Future Of Mankind!”

  “What are you counting on with this little envelope?” Dietmar chuckled.” The train has already set off. You can’t stop it, even if you throw yourself on the tracks. Teatralnaya is going to be ours. And Revolution Square will be too. The Reds won’t be able to do a thing. They have their own hunger revolts to suppress as it is. Half the mushrooms rotted because of that dry mold. It’s spreading like wildfire.”

  “Who is Bessolov?” Artyom repeated, wondering who Miller would accept orders from.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then why is a letter from some Bessolov more important than a letter from Miller?”

  “It’s not a letter from some Bessolov that’s more important to me, Stalker. You’re more important.”

  The barracks came to an end, and there were heaps of fortifications: hedgehogs, barbed wire, black machine guns with their barrels pointing forward in the direction in which Dietmar was leading Artyom. Guard dogs started barking, mimicking the Führer, and then, mingling with their ragged verse, there came a man’s groan—a groan with which the life was probably departing from someone’s body. Pushkin Station, Artyom realized: Dietmar was taking him to Pushkin Station.

  “Is he there? At Pushkin? You promised not to touch him!”

  They stopped at a brick wall that ran up to the ceiling, with an iron door in it. Dietmar dismissed the guard with his index finger. He took out a tobacco pouch; extracted some cut newspaper out of one pocket; sprinkled dried stuff onto the whimsical, black letters; licked the
paper and rolled it up.

  “Here, you have a smoke too.”

  Artyom didn’t disdain the offer. His soul had begged for poison back in Miller’s office, but Miller had begrudged Artyom one final cigarette before discarding him forever, and now Dietmar had made the offer himself.

  The Unter leaned against the wall, propped his head back, and looked at the ceiling.

  “If our teacher’s Armenian woman has a freak, what do you think, will he write our book for us?”

  “If you kill it? The child?”

  “If we put it to sleep. Do you think he won’t praise us in his little book?”

  “No, he won’t,” Artyom replied.” He couldn’t be such a bastard.”

  “Well now …” Dietmar screwed up his eyes and blew out smoke.” But I think he will. I think the Armenian girl will feel bad about it and she’ll rail at our Ilya Stepanovich, but then he’ll convince her that it’s all right and good. That they just have to try again. And he’ll sit down to write his book about the Reich, and then we’ll publish it in an edition of ten thousand, so that everyone in the Metro who can read will read it. And the others will learn to read from it. And everyone will know Ilya Stepanovich’s name. And for that Ilya Stepanovich will forgive us for putting his little baby to sleep.”

  “For ten thousand books? He’ll surprise you yet.” Artyom smiled crookedly at Dietmar.” He’ll flee from the station, maybe even make an assassination attempt. That kind of thing can’t be forgiven.”

  “It can’t be forgiven, but it can be forgotten. Everyone comes to terms with himself. People rarely surprise me, stalker. A man is arranged fairly simply. Everyone has the same gear-wheels in their head. Here’s the desire to live a bit better, here’s the fear, and here’s the sense of guilt. And those are all the gear-wheels a human being has. Tempt the greedy, wear down the fearless with guilt, intimidate the ones with no conscience. Take you. Why the hell did you show up here again? You knew you were risking your neck. Ah, but you’ve got a conscience. You’re anxious about your old man. You blew up the passage because you’ve got a conscience! And now there’s the hook. I can see it sticking out!” Dietmar touched Artyom’s cheek with a finger smelling of cigarette smoke, and Artyom jerked it away.” You swallowed it. And now you’re stuck with me, aren’t you? After all, you betrayed your Order. You cozied up to the enemy. Your friends are there outside, waiting for you. They think you’re their man. But you’re not. You’re mine.