Sixth Watch by Sergei Lukyanenko
“Maybe it’s beyond its power to embody itself in those it wants to kill. Maybe someone has to possess some particular feature in order to become the embodiment of the Twilight.”
I nodded. She was probably right.
The elevator stopped and we walked out into a lobby. Straight toward the somber Day Watch security men—two battle magicians and a werewolf.
Apparently in order to save time, the werewolf was already in the form of an immense wolf.
“What if some casual passerby looks in?” I asked reproachfully, nodding at the wolf.
“We’ve got a permit for him,” one of the magicians replied politely. “An Irish wolfhound, trained for security work.”
“Although he actually failed the training course, couldn’t understand it all.” The other magician sighed.
The werewolf growled.
The magicians laughed.
Well, that’s the way Dark Ones are.
Not very bright.
We were expected and no one even bothered to check our ID, fingerprints, auras, and the rest of it. Or rather, they probably did check them all, but not so that we would notice. Maybe it was in the elevator—it seemed to take a long time getting up here.
An Asian-looking girl magician (Japanese? Korean? Chinese?) led us from reception to Zabulon’s office, opened the door, let us in, and stayed outside. She looked like a sweet, innocent girl, but I sensed that she was a Second-Level Battle Magician, and an old, experienced one at that, who had fought plenty of battles. I hadn’t heard about her before. Zabulon had brought her in from somewhere far away.
“Anton,” said the Great Dark One, smiling genially as he got up from behind his desk. “I’m so glad to see you! Olga! You’re looking great!”
I looked around curiously.
While Zabulon had put his employees in a glass aquarium and chosen a somewhat calmer interior for the meeting room, he had kept his office in classical English style.
Wooden panels on the walls (with so many spells pumped into the wood that they were almost splitting apart from the Power trying to force its way out). The ceiling was also paneled in dark wood and old fabric wall covering. The furniture was very old, no doubt the work of some famous craftsman, but the only master craftsman I know is Chippendale, and only from the cartoon series.
The windows in the office were covered with sumptuous curtains of red velvet with tassels—probably the last thing you expect to find in a modern glass-and-metal business center.
Zabulon already had a visitor—a delightful, red-haired girl in severe round glasses. The girl was wearing a gray pantsuit that made her look like a businesswoman—but a very attractive and sexy businesswoman.
The only thing wrong was that this woman was over two hundred years old, and for two centuries of that time she had already been dead.
“Ekaterina,” I said briefly, nodding to the Master of the vampires of Moscow.
“Anton,” she replied, smiling with the corners of her lips. Then she frowned. She sniffed demonstratively, got up, and glided across (this word describes the process far more accurately than “walked over”) to me.
“Careful now, my dear,” Olga said in a voice as cold as ice.
“Don’t treat me like a fool, Great One,” Ekaterina replied without even looking at Olga. She leaned her head down to my neck and examined my skin closely for a few seconds.
“Have you seen everything?” I asked.
Ekaterina moved away from me to the desk and sat on the faded greenish-bronze leather of the desktop. There was total and absolute puzzlement in her eyes.
“Who?” she asked, and I imagined I heard envy and admiration in the voice of the Master of Vampires. “Who, Higher One?”
“It’s not important,” I replied. “Not important at all anymore.”
“I see,” Ekaterina said with a nod, keeping her eyes fixed on my neck. “But nonetheless, how . . . unusual.”
I squinted at Zabulon. I still hadn’t told the Dark One what had happened to his protégée. But the Great Magician’s face remained impassive. Either he knew that the ancient vampire was dead, or he didn’t give a damn. Or he was used to concealing any emotions.
“You don’t like us,” Ekaterina said with a note of sadness in her voice. “You don’t respect us.”
“Why do you say that? I’ve even had friends who were vampires,” I replied.
“So I’ve heard,” she said with a nod. “Only they all ended up the same way.”
“We all end up the same way,” I pointed out.
“Break!” Zabulon announced, clapping his hands. “I’d happily listen to your sparring, but we don’t have that much time . . . how much do we have, by the way?”
Ekaterina raised her arm in an elegant movement and looked at something made of pink gold and diamonds running around her wrist that could just about have been mistaken for a watch.
“The gathering starts in ten hours. It’s in New York, and all our important events are traditionally tied to midnight. If I’m going by plane, it’s time I was on my way to the airport, Zabulon.”
“I’ll open a portal for both of you,” the Dark One said.
“We still haven’t agreed on ‘both of us,’” said Ekaterina, glancing at me. “That wasn’t simply taunting or sparring. All the vampires who have become involved with this young man have ended badly.”
“It’s your damned vampire god who tried to kill my family,” I said. “I have a right to be annoyed.”
Ekaterina snorted.
“I’m no supporter of old legends, wild gods, and ancient covenants. As far as I’m concerned, the Two-in-One can burn in hell. I’m happy with my”—she hesitated for a moment—“my afterlife. Beautiful young men, sweet blood, modern art. I haven’t finished watching Castle yet, you know!”
Behind me Olga laughed quietly.
“Well, to stop the entire world going to hell, we have to choose a Master of Masters,” I said.
“A Master of Masters,” Ekaterina said with a frown.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “A Master of Masters. We want to help with that.”
“How?” the vampiress asked. “There’ll be fifty of us Masters at the gathering. And let me tell you right away, I have no claims on the leading role. I couldn’t handle it. But you know how our Master of Masters is chosen, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” I said.
“Then you understand that none of us are consumed with the desire to die . . . finally and completely.”
“But then everyone will die,” I said. “The people, the animals . . .”
“The little mousies, the birdies.” Ekaterina snorted.
“You mean you don’t believe it?”
“I believe it, Anton,” said the vampiress, leaning forward slightly and looking into my eyes. “These are our . . . fables. Our dark fables. We remember the god of Light and Darkness . . .”
“But if you’re going to die anyway!”
“Even so, we want to live a few days longer,” Ekaterina said with a smile. “And apart from that, misery loves company. Believe me, it’s a lot easier to die, knowing that the whole world is dying with you.”
“Seriously?” I asked.
The vampiress looked into my eyes, then looked away. And then she spoke in a peevish nagging voice, the illusion of youth had disappeared completely.
“Nothing will come of it. No one will agree. I can take you with me. The circumstances are exceptional, I’ll find some explanation for my actions. But it won’t get us anywhere!”
“Let’s give it a try!” Olga said with a sudden note of warmth in her voice. “Come on, Katerina, keep your chin up!”
“Go to hell, you scheming . . .” The vampiress gestured with her hand and didn’t finish what she was saying. “Everyone’s flailing about, but it’s pointless. Light One, I want three licenses.”
“All right,” Olga said calmly.
“A man about twenty-five years old, fit, pumped, and ripped,” Ekaterina went on. “Onl
Zabulon looked at me curiously. I yawned and looked at Ekaterina.
“The second one. Make him a Caucasian type. Hot-blooded and young. Eighteen to twenty years old. And a boy too, fifteen or sixteen years old. Blond. He has to be a virgin.”
Olga spoke again in the same calm voice.
“Do you have any other requests?”
“Well, you know my tastes,” Ekaterina said with a shrug. “Except . . . make them all from the Central District; we haven’t got much time.”
“I know your tastes,” Olga agreed.
She lowered her hand into her handbag and took out a bundle of forms. I think there were seven or eight of them. Olga separated out three and handed them to the vampiress.
“Agh, I was too modest!” Ekaterina sighed, watching the other sheets of paper disappear with a disappointed expression.
“As you quite rightly remarked, we don’t have much time,” Olga reminded her.
“Well, that’s true,” Ekaterina said with a nod. “Well then . . . see you soon.”
“Eight hours from now, at this spot,” Zabulon said in a quiet voice. “And bear in mind that if you’re late, I’ll drag you to New York myself, on time, but by a different route. One that you won’t like at all.”
“I won’t be late,” the vampiress said without looking back.
The door closed behind her. I looked around for a more comfortable chair and sat in the one that had been occupied by the vampiress.
“You’ve changed,” Zabulon said, looking at me. “You’ve really changed.”
I shrugged.
“I liked the old Gorodetsky more,” Zabulon added. “So sincerely uncompromising.”
“Oh come on,” said Olga, sitting down and taking out a cigarette. “You liked him . . . Let’s all burst into tears of tender emotion. Zabulon has fond feelings for Gorodetsky.”
“Nonetheless, Anton, surely you were outraged by the vampire’s behavior?” said Zabulon, continuing to probe. “She’s going to kill two young men now. And then a boy as well!”
“I feel very sorry for the pure, organic beefcake, the passionate Caucasian, and the innocent blond boy,” I said. “But in a few days all the beefcakes, Caucasians, and blond-haired boys in the world could die. And if the death of three innocents will save the world, then so be it.”
“So you’re no longer trying to solve the problem of a child’s tears?” Zabulon asked merrily, slumping back in his chair. “So now you’re looking at the problem of Omelas?”
“Stop talking gibberish, Dark One,” Olga said in a tired voice. “Have you really been sniffing some kind of junk? You’re garrulous and jittery, Dark One.”
“Yes, Olga. I’m jittery and garrulous. I sense death ahead and I’m afraid. I don’t want to die, Olga. So I’m keeping cheerful any way I can. And I haven’t slept for two nights now. I close my eyes and see a void. It’s waiting for me, Olga.”
“The same thing’s waiting for us,” Olga replied. “Stop being hysterical. Let’s think it through one more time. We only have one try.”
“But why hasn’t the wise Gesar come?” asked Zabulon, narrowing his eyes. “It’s his idea—but we have to make it work?”
“He’s at the Sabbath,” Olga replied. “He’s going to try to persuade the witches to choose a Great Grandmother.”
“Oh! You took the risk of letting your husband go to a den of iniquity like that, full of lecherous old . . .” Zabulon began. He stopped and cleared his throat. “All right, I’ll keep quiet.”
“I’m here for Gesar. He told me everything he thought up,” Olga said, after waiting for Zabulon to be quiet. “We have eight hours, right? I suggest working for four or five hours, then getting a bit of sleep. Can you come up with beds and a shower here?”
“I can come up with a Russian bathhouse and birch-twig brooms here,” Zabulon replied peevishly.
He got up and turned toward the wall, and the wooden panels suddenly moved apart, revealing an immense plasma screen, a flip board, and a white board already covered with writing in felt-tip pen.
“So, forty-nine Masters will gather in New York . . .” Zabulon began.
“Get on with it,” I said.
We really did work fruitfully for four hours without a break. I never thought I’d be able to say this, but working with Zabulon felt comfortable.
In some ways even more comfortable than working with Gesar.
They brought us tea and coffee, and once they brought sandwiches and a yogurt for Olga. Several times, when we needed to clarify some point, researchers and consultants appeared. The surprising thing was that most of them were human.
Of course, we had our own circle of human confidants. My old friend the polizei was by no means the only one. There were quite a few scientists, some of whom actually worked right there in the Night Watch office. As well as people in the government and in the security and military structures. Most of them couldn’t reveal the facts—they were restrained by magic—but quite a lot of them worked on trust and collaborated with us out of ideological motives. Sometimes I think that if wolves and sheep were rational creatures, a significant percentage of the sheep would be found deliberately and voluntarily helping the wolves . . .
But in the Day Watch there were even more freelance humans. And if I read their reasons correctly, while some of them were also ideologically motivated, the majority was absolutely pragmatic. The nondescript little linguistic historian who gave us his advice after the first hour attracted surprisingly warm interest from Olga. I took a closer look—the philologist was sporting a masterfully executed lacework spell that attracted women to him. It was the work of a genuine master: It only worked on adults, and if the philologist failed to show any interest in a woman for several minutes, the effect completely disappeared. Otherwise the unfortunate ladies’ man would have had all the women in the city trailing along behind him in a line several miles long.
It’s the details that make magic complicated in the first instance. The classic example is King Midas, who turned everything he touched into gold. An example for children is Mickey Mouse as the sorcerer’s apprentice, who tried to do the housekeeping by using magic. An example from folklore is the joke about the genie who grants three wishes and the family of a father, a mother, and a little son who dreams of having a hamster . . .
The simplest spells are the ones that have been in use for a very, very long time. They are formalized, precisely described, and constantly repeated. If we believe that it’s the Twilight carrying out our wishes, responding to an order that is expressed through words or gestures or an impulse of the will (and I don’t see any other alternative), then standard spells are routine work for the Twilight. It’s just like someone pressing a key on a calculator and getting an answer. Of course, somewhere deep in the microcircuit invisible work is going on. Microcurrents scurry about, opening and closing p-n junctions, the calculator industriously plows through a mountain of information, and finally announces that two plus two equals four.
And everyone’s happy.
But it’s quite a different matter when someone wants something that a calculator, or even a supercomputer, simply hasn’t been taught to do. Take the number X and multiply it by the number Z. If the result is greater than Y, add five to the result and print the answer. If the result is less than Y, draw a triangle on the screen.
Complicated?
Not at all, really. If you know even a tiny little bit of ancient Basic. We write the program and launch it . . .
It doesn’t work.
We check the wiring, we check the power supply. We scratch our heads.
We drink a cup of coffee.
And then we catch on!
We write one more line: If the result is equal to Y, play the “Imperial March” from the film Star Wars.
There you go, now you can listen to the rousing, bravura music.
Spells are at the same time simpler (no need to know any pro
Have you heard of ball lightning? That’s what it is—fireballs created by novice Others, generally wild ones who haven’t been tutored by anyone, who are full of enthusiasm and confidence in their own uniqueness. The Fireball has always been a popular spell, and in our age of fantasy and computer games, it’s even more popular. So novice Others create Fireballs, forgetting to define exactly where they’re supposed to arise.
And have you heard of spontaneous combustion? An ordinary person suddenly bursts into flames and is reduced to ashes! That’s usually a Fireball too. Only in this case the Other imagined its point of appearance too near to himself. And he forgot to define its movement vectors and the duration of existence . . .
“Gorodetsky?”
I looked at Zabulon.
“Please favor us with your opinion,” the Dark One said sarcastically. “You were absorbed in such profound and serious thoughts—what were they about, I wonder?”
“About the workings of the universe,” I replied. “Zabulon, I think we’ve had enough repetition. We’ve planned everything. If it works, it works. Let’s get a few hours’ sleep.”
“You’re pumped right up to the gills with Power,” Zabulon remarked casually. “You could go without sleep.”
“I could. But I’d rather sleep for a while.”
“Your wife?” Zabulon asked.
“My daughter. My wife channeled it.”
“Take good care of her,” Zabulon said with sudden seriousness. “Your daughter is unique—she’s the only thing we have to put up against the Twilight. And apart from that, she’s a remarkably intelligent and responsible girl for her age.”
I cleared my throat in an attempt to conceal my confusion. Zabulon looked absolutely sincere and I couldn’t see any ulterior motive in what he had said.
“I don’t even know what to say, Dark One,” I mumbled. “But you can be sure I’m taking good care of her.”