Nine Layers of Sky

by Liz Williams

  “… it’s not showing up on the chart. I can’t track the mileage without it …”

  “… more tea in the samovar, if you want some …”

  “… if you can’t find the details on the computer, why don’t you just look at my ticket? It’s simple enough …”

  Ordinary conversations, thought Ilya, spoken in a curiously accented Russian, but where was this place? He thought that he had seen it before, in dreams. It had the same feel. He looked up at the sky, where the bright sun burned, and found no answers. Ilya closed his eyes, listening beyond the ring of voices, seeking the edges of the world.

  A voice, very clear, very cold, said, “We ride again, I tell you. Even if it takes us across the border, we ride!”

  It was the voice of the Golden Warrior, he was sure of it. He could not tell whether it was the voice of a woman or a man. But in that case, how was he able to understand what the voice was saying? He did not speak Kazakh and the Warrior would not converse in Russian. And what was a horde of fourteenth-century Kazakh horsemen doing in a world where people had problems with their computers and the sky was a darker blue? In eight hundred years, he had never heard of such a place.

  “Ilya?” His head snapped around. It was Elena, but he could not tell where she was. He tried to narrow it down, filtering out the great murmur of voices until he found her. Minutes later, it came again.

  “Ilya!”

  Away to the west, somewhere along the mountain wall. Even if he could not speak to her, at least she was alive. Relief filled him. He started walking west. Fragments of speech washed over him like the waves of an invisible sea, but he was used to that. It was the heroin that was a problem, or the lack of it. Withdrawal made his throat dry and his vision blur. Sometimes he stumbled. His joints were aching, and once it was as though the world’s pain had come to greet him. It brought him to his hands and knees, gasping and retching on the dry earth.

  I will find you.

  There it was again, that unknown voice in his mind. He struggled up and walked on, listening for Elena. He did not hear her again for some time, and now she was no longer calling his name. She was singing softly beneath her breath. He did not recognize the song, but he knew the sound of her voice. It struck him that he would know it anywhere, and the knowledge brought dismay: the promise of further hurt, for both of them. He followed nonetheless.

  The landscape was similar to the country around Almaty: hills giving way to the higher, forested slopes. Far above, toward the glittering summit of the mountains, Ilya saw the carved gouges of glaciers. But the land that fell away from the mountain wall was fertile: long fields of wheat, and apple orchards. High on one of the hillsides was a long, low house, surrounded by trees, but Ilya thought it best to keep away from habitation. And besides, he could still hear Elena’s voice.

  The sound of her song led him onto a road: not the usual potholed tarmac, or even the dirt roads of earlier years, but a straight trackway made of some kind of smooth black stone. It was unlike anything he had seen before. He bent and ran a hand along its surface. It was cool and seamless and hard, like obsidian. Ilya frowned. He tried to walk more quickly, but the pain was coming in waves and it was difficult even to stand. He should lie by the roadside, he thought dimly, let the world take him. Death was long overdue—and yet, somewhere within, he realized with distant amazement that he no longer wanted to die.

  Elena’s song stopped. He heard her say, “Ilya?”

  —and then he saw her at last, a small figure farther along the road.

  She ran to meet him, holding her shoes in her hand. She appeared genuinely glad to see him, and for a moment that realization blotted out the pain.

  “Ilya, you’re here.” She reached out to him and then, evidently embarrassed, let her hands fall by her sides. “Where are we? Where is this place?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know, Elena. I’ve no idea.”

  “How did we get here?” She was not, it seemed, expecting an answer, for she went on, “I’ve been looking at the plants. I know some of them, but others—look.” She held out a fronded blue strand like a horsetail. “I’ve never seen this before. And those trees—what are they? Surely we can’t be on another planet?”

  “I don’t think so.” A little reluctantly, Ilya told her about the voices.

  “They were speaking Russian? Are you sure?”

  “It’s the only language I can speak well, Elena. A little German, French, Kazakh—I know Russian when I hear it.”

  “You must have pretty good hearing,” Elena said, giving him a puzzled look.

  “I have … abilities. My hearing is one of them. I can hear a voice from a thousand miles away.”

  Elena looked doubtful. He could hardly blame her.

  “How sure are you that it’s actually your hearing? Could it be something like telepathy?”

  “It’s not just voices. I can hear other things, too. Natural sounds: leaves falling, the unfolding of a bee’s wing.”

  Elena’s eyes widened. “I thought your name was familiar. I’ve heard of you. In childhood stories—the legends of Russia.”

  Ilya gave a wry smile. “Yes, I was famous for a while. A bogatyr, an ‘elder valiant champion.’ ” He paused, embarrassed. “A hero, basically.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to have a flying horse?”

  He smiled. “I wish. I’ve had many horses, but none of them had wings. And my sword isn’t a magic one, either. It’s just a sword. People love to embroider a plain enough tapestry.”

  “But you weren’t the only bogatyr,” Elena said. “There were others.”

  “There were, yes. The Sons of the Sun, they called us.” He started to cough at that point, turning away from Elena and burying his mouth in his sleeve.

  “Ilya, are you all right?”

  “I’ll be okay… . Not just sons, either, but daughters. Some had unnatural strength, others the sight of an eagle. We passed into legend, became nothing but stories. Mankind outstripped us.”

  “Mankind? Are you telling me that you aren’t human?”

  “I have been told that I am not. I myself do not know.”

  She was staring at him.

  “Do you believe me?” he asked. He found that her answer mattered to him.

  She gestured around her in response. “My views of reality have undergone something of a change, Ilya. This morning it would have seemed preposterous. Now it’s verging on the plausible.” She paused. “But if you’re not human, then what are you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think you could be from here? Wherever this place is?”

  “I don’t think so, Elena. I was born in Russia. My mother was an ordinary woman; we were peasants. We lived in a little log izba in the middle of the Siberian forest. You were a foreigner if you came from half a kilometer up the track.”

  Elena said nothing.

  “We ought to try to find some kind of shelter. And food,” Ilya said, thankful to change the subject.

  “There are houses up on the ridge. And you said you heard people speaking Russian. I think we should take a chance.”

  “I don’t like the idea of seeking people out.”

  “Neither do I. But it’s that or sleep in barns, and steal.” His face must have been easy to read, for she added after a glance, “You’d rather do that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he admitted.

  “Then perhaps we should compromise. Hide out for a time, watch whoever we see. If they don’t appear dangerous, we’ll chance it. And you can listen to them, can’t you? What do you think?”

  “Very well,” Ilya said warily. “We’ll see.”

  A track branched off from the main route, leading up into the foothills. Ilya worried that they might be too visible, but there was no sign that they were being watched. It was unnaturally quiet. They saw no one in the fields; there was no traffic along the road. Ilya tried to filter out the wash of background noise. He could hear the hu
mming of machines all around them. He did not know what they were, but it was a twenty-first century soundscape: washing machines, computers, generators.

  Gradually, however, a greater sound began to impinge upon him, a singing through the air. It was coming across the mountains. He stopped, shading his eyes with his hand.

  “Ilya? What is it?”

  “I don’t know. A plane, maybe.”

  He was wrong. The next moment, the immense bulk of a zeppelin sailed above the peaks. It was silver, its flanks caught the late afternoon light until it shone as brightly as a captive moon.

  “It’s huge,” Elena said in wonder.

  As the thing turned, Ilya saw that it bore letters on its side: RT817.

  “Does that mean anything to you?” he asked.

  “No,” Elena said, gazing into the heavens and shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. “I don’t recognize the symbol, either.”

  The zeppelin did not bear the hammer and sickle, but another sign: a many-pointed star, in ideologicallysound crimson. The air was filled with the sound of the zeppelin’s engines, and more craft were soaring above the mountain wall. These were smaller, sharper, like silver arrows. They darted beneath the zeppelin.

  “Are they attacking it?” Elena asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ilya replied, but he did not want to take the chance and get caught beneath some aerial battle. Memories of German bombers flashed through his mind. He caught Elena by the arm and pulled her into a nearby hedge. This time, there were no trees among which to shelter. Fields of beets stretched away from the road. A craft flashed by, so close above them that Ilya glimpsed the line of rivets that ran along its underside. The craft roared up, a needle against the sky, twisted, fell back.

  But as it came round, Ilya, blinking away the dust, saw a curious thing: a line of light in the sky, splitting the pure dark blue. There was a bitter, chemical smell. He reached for Elena’s hand. The world changed once more. He tasted earth, the bitterness of beets, snow. They fell through into a howl of sleet in the darkness beyond.

  Interlude

  BYELOVODYE, N.E. 80

  Anikova rejected the offer of a staff car, saying that she preferred to walk instead. She was dawdling, reluctant to get to her appointment on time; she had tried very hard to get out of it, but the Mechvor had insisted.

  “I know what I saw,” Anikova had told her. “A breach, that was all, and an accident that followed. I don’t need counseling.”

  “You are afraid of me,” the Mechvor said, her head on one side. Anikova found the gesture both affected and sinister. She caught a glimpse of Kitai’s avatar, coiled within her like the double exposure of a photograph, and thought again: Bozhie mne. What are you? The Mechvor’s strangeness, her inhumanity, were becoming harder to ignore. Kitai put a hand on Anikova’s arm with her customarily delicate concern. “You have no reason to fear me, Colonel. Or may I address you as Shadia Marianovna?”

  “If you want,” Anikova mumbled ungraciously.

  “So. You saw a breach. And you acted responsibly in a most dangerous situation. You know that Central Command is proposing to decorate you for it?”

  She spoke as though offering sweets to a child.

  Anikova said, “I have a chestful of medals. I clank like a bucket whenever I stand up. You know as well as I do that it doesn’t mean anything.” She did not want to add: What about the men whose lives I could not save? Do I get a medal for them, too? She knew perfectly well that this was a probe; that underneath the veil of concern, Kitai wanted to find out what else Anikova might have glimpsed in that sudden flickering inferno.

  “Look,” she said, controlling her distaste with difficulty. “It’s very good of you to be so concerned, and I know that Central Command likes people to have a psychological assessment when this kind of situation occurs, but it really isn’t necessary. I prefer to deal with things in my own way.” I do not need this endless probing into my psyche, this work of dream-stealers. I need silence and the lake, and my family, that is all. But to say so might arouse suspicions in the Mechvor, the realization that perhaps Anikova was not the perfect Party tool after all, but had thoughts and feelings of her own. So Anikova took a deep breath and forced the words out.

  “Maybe you’re right, however. Perhaps counseling might help me to deal with things better.”

  The Mechvor smiled with relief. “There’s often an initial resistance, Shadia Marianovna. It’s perfectly normal. Please don’t worry. We’ll take good care of you.”

  But it was not what she had seen through the breach that concerned Anikova, but what else Kitai might discover lurking inside her head, what heretical thoughts. Leaving the Mechvor behind, she walked slowly along the street, remembering.

  She had been fifteen, and the family had gone to the dacha outside Azhutsk for the weekend. Pergama Province sweltered in the heat and Anikova couldn’t sleep. At last she threw the windows open, activating the chemical screen that kept the insects at bay, but outside the evening air was baking. Light lingered in the west, a deep, clear aquamarine, and the moon was rising like a shadow on the sky. Through the nightscreen, the woods shimmered in a haze.

  There was a tree outside the window, in which a younger Anikova had sat for hours, hiding from her sisters in the sinking twilight. Now, Anikova turned to switch off the light, and when she looked back, the rusalka was sitting in the branches. The creature’s almond eyes glowed. She looked like a medieval maiden, demure in the branches of the tree. Anikova stood frozen at the window. She saw the rusalka’s mouth open, and the sudden, frantic fear made her tug the windows shut. Then the rusalka was gone, drawing back through the summery leaves without a sound.

  Later that night, lying sleepless and clammy in her bed, Anikova heard someone singing in the woods. The song called to her of the coolness of the forest, and the streams that poured down through the crags, and the great dreaming land. Anikova thought of the mouth that was making that song, and only that image kept her from slipping downstairs and out into the enticing trees. At last, she thought she heard laughter, faint and moving swiftly away.

  She knew the prohibitions. It was not permitted to speak of the rusalki, or to think about them. They, and the things like them, were the soft heel in the armor of the Republic: the old dreams that helped the world to crack. The Mechvor reminded Anikova of the rusalka, yet she knew that they were not the same. Kitai was something else, something ancient harnessed in the service of the State, but the similarity remained, a disturbing echo of difference. Anikova did not know whether the Mechvor would see the rusalka looking back at her out of memory, and she was afraid of what might happen in the course of the counseling session.

  She resolved to think only of the breach: only of fire and death and horror. She must force from her mind all criticisms of Central Command’s most recent actions. Then, perhaps, Kitai would be deceived, and leave her alone.

  Part Five

  One

  ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  To Elena, this felt like the world they knew: Almaty, with a spring storm raging. But they were no longer on the road that led beneath the slopes of Koktubye. There was cold snow under her feet and the sharp smell of pines. She looked up and saw a ragged pinnacle of rock through a break in the clouds. She had lost her shoes. Ilya’s hand, painfully clasping her own, was icy.

  “We’re in the mountains,” she cried above the wind. She saw him nod.

  “We’ve got to find shelter. It’s nearly dark.”

  She followed him through the trees, wincing with every step. The snow had already soaked through her tights, biting her with its chill. She brushed aside wet, heavy branches and thought longingly of the world they had left. But it had not been so tranquil at the end, with those swift planes. She thought of the warriors and the hiss of arrows in the dark, and shivered, but there was a more immediate threat. If they could not find shelter, it would be the end of them both. It was still early enough in the year to die of exposure.

&n
bsp; She tried to fix their position. Surely that was the peak of Karniznaya above them, seen from behind? But the nearest village, in that case, would be Ozyomy, over a dozen kilometers away, and hard going even in fine weather.

  “Elena!” Ilya shouted. “Do you know where we are?”

  “I think so. But we’re nowhere near a village. Our best chance is to find one of the herders’ huts on the zhelau. On the pastures,” she explained, as Ilya frowned. “We need to head down beneath the snow line.”

  She could no longer feel her feet. Ilya grasped her arm, helping her when she stumbled.

  “Look,” he said. “This is foolish. Father Frost isn’t going to show up and give you shoes, you know… . Take my boots.” Before she could protest, he reached down, undid the laces, and stripped them off.

  “I don’t know about Father Frost—I think I’m turning into the Snowmaiden. What about you?”

  “I went barefoot for years. I was a peasant before I was a hero. Don’t underestimate me.”

  It was, she had to admit, much easier with the boots, even if they were several sizes too big. Together, they ducked under branches and kicked aside the snow. At last, the snow grew patchier and then vanished. They came out into a wide expanse of grass, battered flat by the storm. Above the peaks, a scrap of sky showed a livid green: the last of the day’s light. On the other side of the zhelau, Elena could see a small dark square.

  “There’s a hut! Look.”

  She ploughed into waist-deep, wet grass. In minutes, without the protection offered by the trees, her coat was soaked. By the time they reached the hut, her hair was plastered over her face and she could barely see. She fell through the door.

  “Is there a stove?” Ilya asked behind her.

  “Stove, matches, and kindling.”

  In these high pastures, where people had been eking out a living for centuries, warmth meant the difference between life and death. There were two bunks, with rough blankets that still smelled of horses. Ilya sank down onto the lower one as though his strings had been cut. Elena, trying to ignore the numbness in her hands, fumbled with the kindling and eventually lit it. The flame flared up, sending shadows spinning across the wooden walls and floor. She struggled out of her wet coat, wrinkling her nose at the odor of sodden fur. Outside, it was now quite dark.