
There was a blackhole where the door ought to have been. I was being pulled towards it, stretched and torn apart with the slowness of eternity. I’d been planning a nice morning in some hipster cafe with an iced chai latte and annoyingly upbeat music. I’d been planning to save the world. I’d been planning to go back to Tynon and visit my mother.
I remembered, in those five seconds of eternity, that my mother was dead. And that a blackhole, here of all places, must mean that Tynon was already a mass of particles somewhere beyond the event horizon. Soon we’d all be together, all finally see if there was something beyond death…
My alarm buzzed and I woke, breathing heavy. I have never actually woken up in a cold sweat – perhaps that is more of an earthling thing. I took a deep breath and then went about my day. Such dreams were hardly anything new.
Interestingly enough, they say people didn’t usually have those dreams before the Rift. People dreamt of other sorts of deaths – of falling, drowning, being shot. I have never once dreamt of such a death – nope, just black holes for me. Is it any wonder why? An article, published by the Intergalactic Foundation of Human Wellbeing in the Earth year of 2300?) attributed these all-too-common dreams to a type of collective consciousness, passed on from one generation to the next. Our ancestors, those who made it through the Rift, had no greater fear. And it was passed on to us.
I took a quick shower, opened the fridge, closed it again. I grabbed my textbooks, ordered a taxi, pulled on the same pair of jeans I’d worn the day before, and marched down the five flights of Soviet stairs. It was spring. The air smelled of lilacs. I took a deep breath, and then another. No, black holes were clearly not the enemy. There were worse things to fear – spiders, bad sushi, living in guilt for the rest of your life, the Triune Council. Plenty of things. Black holes were not one of them. I insisted on having that dang dream anyway.
An old, blue Daewoo Nexia pulled up. I check the plates – 078 XYKX. It was the same shade of blue as my mother’s favorite nail polish. I climbed in, my mind still caught up in a black hole.
“To Ludmila’s?” The driver’s question startled me out of the impending doom of being torn apart.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. But then a memory flashed and flickered forth from a month prior and my world started spiraling.
Looking back, I’m tempted to blame it all on that taxi driver – every misstep, every death. Of course, I know he isn’t to blame. This tale has villains aplenty – why pluck one out of thin air? It’s just, he started it all. He was my first taste of fear. In that moment, all I could do was try to breathe, let this blessed mix of oxygen swim into my lungs, try to ignore the sickening odor of stale air fresheners and cigarettes. I inhaled. I exhaled. And I suggest you do the same. I will explain it all, in due time.
Even in the wildest dreams of my youth, of which, I will admit, there were many, I had never imagined ending up on Earth. The reasons were many. To start – well, it simply wasn’t the sort of place that people went on purpose. According to the histories, it had been almost entirely overlooked by the rest of the universe for the bulk of its existence. Such a fate was understandable; it was small and self-contained, with very little in the way of extraordinary to which the universe might draw its gaze. It was not Phinza or Plau, with their mile high waves, nor Tynon with cities to the horizon. It was not——. It was not Krillikaa.
What’s more, Earth was sort of snobby, especially considering… well, everything. They didn’t take well to outsiders. There were reports of slaughters, hate crimes. A brilliant way to make friends with the Universe, no? Oh, and the paperwork was madness. Exters actually had to get a residency permit in order to even land on the planet. Which is just the most Earth thing ever. (My editor says I need to explain the term Exter for those of you who are living under a rock. Basically, it’s not politically correct to call people aliens anymore). (My editor also says I should try not to insult my readers on page one. So… sorry).
See, the bizarre thing about Earth is that – they didn’t know. They thought they were alone. And then, in the Earth year of 2115, the Rift occurred. We all know the details, but for the sake of my editor, I will expound.
The Rift, in five sentences. An essay:
The Krillik, one of the most technologically advanced civilizations in the Milky Way, decided to build paradise. But dreams require buttloads of energy, so they started harvesting suns. Yes, suns. (I know, waste of a perfectly good sentence). A few too many used-up suns turned into super massive blackholes, five of which collided, sending gravitational tsunamis into the far reaches of the galaxy and destroying a third of the ____ arm.
Hence my recurring nightmares. But Earth – I mean, they thought they were alone. Only to discover that no, they were simply inconsequential. I mean, imagine believing that you’re IT – THE ONE PLANET in the universe with life. And then suddenly, a few stars start disappearing and it turns out you’re little more than a speck of dust. It changed everything. They essentially went through an identity crisis. Which, honestly, I understand better than most. That sort of shift can make a person (or a planet) do crazy things.
In due Earth fashion, they used this startling discovery as a catalyst that birthed a new generation of music. The music of the Post-Alyptic Era swept across the planet and made waves far into the galaxy. And, well, Earth moved onto the galactic chessboard. Sort of. I mean, it was barely even a pawn. But she longed to be Queen.
A side note. It would be foolish, of course, to imagine that no Exter races had ever found their way to Earth prior to the Rift. A few had come and hidden their tracks poorly, and so had birthed the widespread superstitions about UFOs and alien abductions. Those who had held to such beliefs were duly vindicated in the days following the Rift. But others had come as well, in much better disguise, and whether they, too, had left their dusty imprints upon the annals of history remained to be seen.
Nevertheless, following the Rift, the status quo remained intact. Earth was, still, unimportant in the grand scale of things. Or so most people believed. But then I showed up.
Ok, so the taxi driver. On his own, he wasn’t much. He wore an air of disrepair, as if he were a long-forgotten relic that had ceased to be of use and was doomed to end up in the trash pile any day now. Perhaps that’s the reason he spoke up the way he did. His last chance to cause mischief.
I lived in a city of millions. My taxi driver should not have known the name of my Russian teacher. That was the first concern. The second was that this was not the first time he had asked me that. How many times had he driven me?
I recorded every detail; the bandage on the man’s left wrist, hair both greying and receding. He wore his glasses on a cord about his neck, spoke Russian without accent or falter. the Southern Miss Golden Eagles blanket covering the backseat, windshield cracked. Outside my window the mountains flashed in a brilliant line, snow-covered and serene. I wondered if I was about to die.
No, no I had no fear that he himself would do the dirty deed. Too old. I did not fear him. But I was afraid of the Council. Deathly afraid. And they had found me. Something about that realization – that I was no longer a nobody, but a person of interest – set me running too. I suppose I was naive. Or maybe it was intentional, the way I only noticed what I wanted to. Regardless, I’m sure I would have gone on blindly for many more months if it weren’t for those two words.
Looking back, I’m tempted to blame it all on that taxi driver. If it weren’t for him I would have never decided to hitchhike to Moscow, never would have met Bolat, might have died long before having the chance to cause so much chaos. I’m not sure why everything always comes back to him – perhaps I am merely comforted by the thought of a scapegoat.
He wore an air of disrepair, as if he were a long-forgotten relic that had ceased to be of use and was doomed to end up in the trash pile any day now. Perhaps that’s the reason he spoke up the way he did. His last chance to cause mischief.
“To Ludmila’s?” The question startled me from a deep sea of thoughts.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. But then a memory flashed and flickered forth from a month prior. He had asked me that before.
The world zoomed into focus sickeningly fast. I recorded every detail; the bandage on the man’s left wrist, hair both greying and receding. He wore his glasses on a cord about his neck, spoke Russian without accent or falter. the Southern Miss Golden Eagles blanket covering the backseat, windshield cracked, blue paint like the nail polish my mother used to wear. Daewoo Nexia. Plate 078 XYKX. The car smelled of citrus and gasoline. Outside my window the mountains flashed in a brilliant line, snow-covered and serene. I wondered if I was about to die.
I’d chalked it up to living in a city that was surely smaller than it seemed, and having a language teacher who also took taxis. He likely recognized her address and just wanted to make conversation. But no, it was a city of millions. He shouldn’t know who I was visiting.
In all honesty, he wasn’t much to speak of. His left wrist was bandaged, the reason for which I dare not speculate.
e wasn’t much to speak of: bandaged left wrist, glasses on a cord about his neck, hair both receding and graying. His clothes were threadbare. And he was Russian.
The truth of the matter is, of course, that he was not, actually, my first clue. I knew the universe was in danger long before that fateful ride, courtesy of a prisoner on the run from earth and its tyrants. I just didn’t know that I, personally, was in danger until that taxi driver let it slip. And something about that realization – that I was no longer a nobody, but a person of interest – set me running too.
I suppose I was naive. Or maybe it was intentional, the way I only noticed what I wanted to. Regardless, I’m sure I would have gone on blindly for many more months if it weren’t for those two words. To this day I cannot comprehend why he wasn’t more careful. Was he simply careless – old and absent-minded? Overly confident? The possession of a secret can do that to a person. Or had it been a warning?
Once and I might have never noticed. It was a peculiar city with peculiar people. But twice caught my attention. “To Ludmila’s?” The question startled me from a deep sea of thoughts.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. But then a memory flashed and flickered forth from a month prior and my world started spiraling.
He had asked me that before. I’d chalked it up to living in a city that was surely smaller than it seemed, and having a language teacher who also took taxis. He likely recognized her address and just wanted to make conversation. But no, it was a city of millions. He shouldn’t know who I was visiting.
That greying, tattered taxi driver showed up to drive me only once more following that first hint that I had wandered too deep and was now well in over my head. I’d just about convinced myself it had been a coincidence. Just about. But not quite. No truth, no matter how unpleasant, can be ignored forever.
I frantically recorded every detail, the Southern Miss Golden Eagles blanket covering the backseat, windshield cracked, blue paint like the nail polish my mother used to wear. Daewoo Nexia. Plate 078 XYKX. The car smelled of citrus and gasoline. Outside my window the mountains flashed in a brilliant line, snow-covered and serene. I wondered if I was about to die.
I stopped taking taxis after that, at least ones that were marked. Anyone with a car was willing to be a taxi for the right price. There was something wild and maybe even beautiful about it, the way people let their lives intersect with those of strangers. On my home planet, no one lacking their own form of transportation was likely to last long. But on Earth they were stubborn when it came to letting go of the past.
I had never expected to end up on Earth. It wasn’t the sort of place that people went to on purpose. According to the histories, it had been almost entirely overlooked by the rest of the universe for the bulk of its existence. Such a fate was understandable; it was small and self-contained, with very little in the way of extraordinary to which the universe might draw its gaze. The inhabitants did what inhabitants do – they fought wars and fell in love, made discoveries and watched civilizations crumble. They did, eventually, advance in technology, but never to the point of uncovering much beyond their own solar system.
All that had, of course, changed in the Earth year of 2115, the events of which hardly need to be explained. The Rift. It would be unthinkable for any planet to suppose they were alone in the universe after that. But the uniqueness of Earth’s experience was twofold. Firstly, the Rift shaped the music of an entire generation in a way that only Earthlings could manage. The music of the Post-Alyptic Era swept across the planet and made waves far into the galaxy.
The second unusual result of the Rift was that, well, Earth had discovered that its belief in its isolation was entirely unfounded. It underwent an identity crisis, so to speak. Which, honestly, I understand better than most. That sort of shift can make a person (or a planet) do crazy things. Not that it was all bad. Earth, at long last, suddenly had the universe at its fingertips. Its doors had been forced open.
It would be foolish, of course, to imagine that no alien races had ever found their way to Earth prior to the Rift. A few had come and hidden their tracks poorly, and so had birthed the widespread superstitions about UFOs and alien abductions. Those who had held to such beliefs were duly vindicated in the days following the Rift. But others had come as well, in much better disguise, and whether they, too, had left their dusty imprints upon the annals of history remained to be seen.
Nevertheless, following the Rift, the status quo remained intact. Earth was, still, unimportant in the grand scale of things. Or so most people believed. But then I showed up.
As I’m sure you have concluded, that last taxi ride in the blue Daewoo Nexia did not end with my death. But it did result in me standing alone on the side of the road north of Alma-Ata, hand outstretched, carrying nothing but a backpack and enough cash to do some persuading. I’d done some thinking and this was the only way. Probably.
I glanced back at that string of mountains. The sun was just rising over their jagged bulk and they stood out in a vivid silhouette. A line of cars whizzed past, and for a brief moment, standing alone in their trails of exhaust, I allowed myself to feel the sadness of leaving a place I’d unintentionally grown to love. Alma-Ata had only ever been meant to be a starting off place for me. It was that sort of city. But, even with the sting of my recently discovered danger, it had been a soft place to land.
It was a city that clung to the past, as if it were a great tree, and its history the roots tying it to earth. And the branches of that city, they stretched in every direction, giving a person the chance to dream. Its truest beauty, of course, was in the mountains – the way they watched over and protected you. In all honesty, in my early days in Alma-Ata I was convinced they watched me. There was no escaping their gaze, no running from the sight of them. But I grew to love it.
The name had intrigued me from the beginning – I think that’s why I chose to land there rather than go straight to Moscow. Alma-Ata. Grandfather Apple. I had never known either of my grandfathers. Hatred and malice had taken one away, weak lungs the other. But I liked the sound of such a city, as if the city itself were a kind guardian. And so yes, it stung a bit to find out the city was actually trying to kill you, down to the very taxi drivers.
Another round of cars was zooming towards me so, gathering the fragments of my emotions, I forced my voice to drip with confidence and began another round of negotiations. Most of the cars that stopped sped off again as soon as they heard where I was headed. In this day and age only fools would think to drive there. But fools could be desperate and so I kept on, anxiously. I would give it thirty more minutes and then was afraid I’d have to call it a day and wait another week or so. If I kept at it, Someone was bound to notice.
A station wagon stopped, the car in disarray, the man little better. He recalled to mind an image of my spying taxi driver and I felt a sinking dread in the pit of my stomach.
“Where to?” he asked.
“Moscow.”
He stared at me, his thoughts speeding, and I had a stark and sudden premonition that I would not last the journey with such a man.
“How much?”
I named a price, intentionally far to low, and off he sped with a mutter and a curse. I watched the car rattle away and let the curse settle on me. The line between wisdom and folly grew fainter with each passing car. I could not continue being so choosy if I ever intended to reach my destination. I could not continue being so choosy if I intended to stay alive.
Another car crested the hill and, with a deep breath, I stuck my hand out once more. An old, black Mercedes-Benz G class paused before me, the window lowering with a hum.
“Where to?”
“Moscow.”
The driver stared at me with surprise, curiosity playing across his features. I was sure he would shake his head and move on. He was young, no more than five years my senior. Qazaq. I knew full well that he could have no love for Moscow. The Qazaqs never did.
“It’s a long way.”
I nodded.
“I’ll take you to Aqtobe,” he said. “Six thousand units.”
I’d been about to accept his offer – Aqtobe would get me over half-way. But I had been prepared to pay 6000 for the whole trip.
“I’d pay that to Moscow,” I said. “To Aqtobe, 3000.”
His eyes widened. “You will stand here all day for that price. 5000.”
“Three.”
He squinted at me. “You have some nerve.”
“I’d better.”
He tilted his head, nodding for me to get in. I clambered into the passenger seat, my heart bursting with fear and excitement, and we were off.
Three hours plodded by. My driver did not speak to me and I was only too glad to give silence free reign. The mountains faded in the rear-view mirror and the steppe rolled out to embrace us. I was relieved to at last be setting off, and also impossibly anxious about all that lay before me. Oh, but it’s hard to describe what that drive was like. If you have never been in such a wide space, it will take some work of the imagination. On my home planet there were no open spaces, just cities and towns, building after building after building marching all the way to the horizon. I’d long been under the impression that such was the norm – at least for civilized planets.
But here one’s soul could breathe at last, the great flatness of those grasslands whispering comfort, the horizon, at long last the horizon, calling me forward, giving me something to chase again. And the sky! It was a great canvas, an expanse, a tangible thing here, where the ozone had not yet been burned through, and there seemed to actually be something solid between us and the stars. I know it will sound strange but I felt, in those first three hours of driving, that a great rift within my soul was being slowly mended.
But healing never comes without a price. I was later to find that, by some grave mistake or grand design, the healer had stitched a wisp of longing into me. Perhaps longing isn’t the right word; it was wanderlust. It was loneliness. It was being homesick for a place I’d never been. It was sorrow and peace and a great aching cavity. It was my heartbeat now, forevermore.
You see, even now as I think back I cannot speak except in faltering attempts at poetry. As for my companion, I do not know what he was thinking in those first hours. I might now be able to guess, but then I could but wonder. It was he who spoke first, and I was startled harshly from my reverie, not least because of the unexpected nature of his words.
“You look as if the steppe were something of a home to you, and yet I think perhaps it is the first time you’ve made its acquaintance.”
I looked at him in surprise, and realized it would be a long ride indeed if we did not speak at all.
“Yes, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Few have, from what I hear. Yet it amazes me that no one seems to bother with it. Perhaps there is some magic that protects it.” I did not believe in magic, or anything of the miraculous sort. But there was something about the steppe… yes, almost magical. Was that why it held me spellbound?
“Are you from Alma-Ata?” I asked, forcing myself back to reality.
“I’ve lived there for the last ten years.” He was like most in Alma-Ata, then. One likely trying to work his way off planet. I was not the only one to choose it as a starting out place. “And you? Where are you from?”
I hesitated. I’m sure you cannot blame me. Three hours is hardly enough to develop any sense of trust.
He glanced at me, sidelong, and shook his head. “Not much of a talker, are you? Or just too many secrets? It’s clear you’re from off-planet.”
“How is that clear?” I asked. My Russian was fluent. I’d spent a whole year studying, just to be sure. And even in Alma-Ata there was enough diversity that almost anyone, barring blue skin or scales, could blend in well enough.
“I can just tell,” he said. “It’s obvious. And if you weren’t, you wouldn’t be afraid to tell me.”
I sighed. He had a point there.
“So?”
“I’m from Tynon.”
“Tynon? That’s a long way.”
“I’m surprised you’ve even heard of it.”
“And I might say the same about Qazaqstan. What brought you here?”
“Business.”
He laughed, his chuckle deep and staccato. “Alright then. I shall be left to my own speculations, and I must admit, I’ve a bit to go on. You’re a foreigner, and trying to hide it, but are fluent in Russian, which means you’ve been here long enough or studied off-planet with the intention of coming here. Probably a linguist. But if you are from off-planet, you likely have a ship – there are no direct passenger shuttles between Tynon and Earth. But if you have a ship, the question remains, why are you buying a ride to Moscow and not flying there yourself? Or simply going by air? Clearly you mean to stay under the radar of someone or other. But why? And who? On Earth your option of enemies is near limitless, but my best guess is the Triune Council. Honestly I can’t quite fathom why they’d care where you are, unless you’re a spy of some sort. And if you are a spy – well then, it’d be nice of you to say, because I could be risking my neck by taking you anywhere.”
He was obviously proud of such a speech – in other circumstances, I might have been found it in me to be impressed too. But at the moment it hit far too close to home for me to find it entertaining.
“What are those great mounds?” I asked, certainly out of curiosity, but also in a desperate bid to change the subject. They rose up, grass-covered, in a haphazard pattern.
“Burial mounds,” he said, with another shake of his head. “From days long long gone. Nothing left by now but dirt and broken bones – all the treasure has long since been carried off by those desperately poor or selfishly rich. At least they’ve had the good sense to leave the mountains be.”
I laughed, glancing past him to the mountain range on our left. Its peaks were still snow covered, stretching skyward with unwavering majesty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If they found gold in human graves, wouldn’t they expect to find it even more in those of the gods?”
“You mean to tell me that the mountains are burial mounds for the gods? Surely you don’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “You’ve seen more of the universe than I – of course you would scoff at such a thought. But we here make sense of what we see in our own ways. If the ancients buried their kings in such mounds, where would the idea have come from but from the gods’ own actions?”
I shook my head again in disbelief and glanced back at him once more. I couldn’t tell if he believed his own words or simply said them in jest.
“Are the gods of Earth all dead then?”
“You haven’t heard? They’ve all been starved and emaciated by the schemes of science and the thrills of an expanding universe. Besides, faith is hardly fashionable these days – they’d be laughed off the stage with their first faux pas.”
“Anyway,” I said, “I don’t suppose a god who could die would be worth much to begin with.”
“It does pose a rather hearty set of questions,” he agreed. “Though I cannot say that, were one to be found who could resurrect, he might not do a bit of good around here.”
“Oh, but resurrection is a messy thing, or so I’ve heard.”
“Undeniably. Better let the dead stay dead.”
I glanced back at the rise and fall of that ancient death. “Do you still bury your dead in burial mounds?” I asked.
“No, we’re far more civilized than that. Now we build graves and mausoleums that are properly marked and cost a small fortune.”
“You mean you still bury bodies in the ground?”
“And what do you do?”
“We departicleize them,” I responded. I’d never known differently.
“De-particle-ize them? What’s that even mean?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. We break them down to their basic elements so they can go back to serve the next generation.”
“That sounds ghastly. You mean, you might eat from a spoon that is made up of your grandmother?” Or mother, I thought, that ever-present hollow looming wide in my chest.
“It’s the way it’s always been done. It’s no different than your method, just speeds up the process a bit. Decay is decay, no matter how it happens.”
“Ghastly,” he said again.
It was a bit ghastly, now that I thought about it. It was impersonal, unceremonious, and left no marker save a few quickly vanishing memories. I had thought I had more than enough of my mother, but now that time sped onward they seemed to slip away from me with a studied swiftness, as if my clinging to them were an attempt to stop the spinning of the planets and the eternal circling of time. All I could see now was her gaunt face, her fading eyes. They haunted everything; my dreams, the night sky, even this great expanse of steppe.
My driver, mercilessly, or perhaps not so mercilessly, left me to my own reverie. Two more hours passed. The mountains grew smaller, then bigger again, and at last we stopped at a small town called Merki, eager for a break from the endless road and perhaps from one another’s company. He filled his car with petrol ( I couldn’t believe they still used the stuff), and I went to the bathroom. It was not much to speak of. Let me rephrase that. It is safe to say that it was the most unsettlingly disgusting place I had ever visited, the toilet no more than a hole in the ground, about which buzzed a cohort of flies. I suddenly understood more than ever why Qazaqs wished to go off-planet. But then I remembered the steppe and thought that, perhaps, they were mistaken after all.
When I had finished I found that my driver had disappeared, inside presumably, and I opted to avoid a room crowded with men in favor of a quick walk and a chance to stretch my legs. It was the walk that saved me, though I momentarily thought otherwise. I was just turning to head back when I noticed his car pull out of the parking lot and fume off in the opposite direction. I stopped walking and simply watched it roll away and turn the corner. I was at a loss – I’d left my few things in the trunk (to my shame), and had already paid him half the money in advance. I cursed and kicked a rock. A minute passed. Then another. And still I stood there, purposeless, an avalanche of doubts wreaking havoc internally.
A car rolled up behind me and stopped. I turned around to find my driver motioning to me hurriedly. I hopped in and he pulled a u-turn, speeding back the way we’d come.
“I thought you’d left me,” I stammered. I was not usually one to be so open with my feelings, but my surprise had weakened me substantially.
“And I thought I was only joking about the spy business.” He seemed almost annoyed, but there was also a faint glimmer in his eyes that I was fairly sure had not been there before.
“What are you talking about? And where are we going? Aqtobe is that way.”
“So, it’s Niqe, is it?” he asked, ignoring my questions.
There went my epic plan of hiding my identity from him.
“Yes. And you are?”
“Serikbolat. You can call me Bolat.”
“And how do you know my name?”
“Your face is on every Alert Device in this town.”
“What?”
“They have a radiusas far as Baikonur and Bukhara.”
“But it’s impossible to get to Aqtobe without passing through Baikonur.”
“Yes, it is rather difficult,” he replied.
My heart began racing. How had they found out I’d started running? Had one of the cars that stopped actually been someone working for the council? Or had man, this Bolat, been the one to sound the alarm? But how could he? We’d been together for the last 5 hours and, to my knowledge, he had placed no calls.
We made a sharp left turn, away from the mountains.
“Where are we going?”
“Well, you want to go to Moscow, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will take you to Chelyabinsk, just across the Russian border. I have a friend there who works for the rails. He can get you a nameless ticket, for the right price, of course. Or you can find another driver. But I would recommend the rails. It’s a dangerous road, and I would not drive it for 10,000.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised he was still willing to help me, if not also a little unnerved.
“But I have one condition,” he said.
The avalanche was back, rushing and violent. “Yes?” I managed.
“I want to know why the Karaxanzada is looking for you. And I want to know why you are going to Moscow.”
This will likely sound conceited, but I am not the sort of person to not know things. To prove my point, a childhood nickname of mine must come to the rescue – “The Walking Database.” I feed on facts. I drink up histories as though they were water. If one were to examine my blood with a microscope, I’m pretty sure they would find little pieces of text floating around from all of the information I have consumed. (Just to be clear, I am well aware that blood is in fact made up of red and white blood cells, platelets, and plasma, and does not contain the capacity for words to float in it).
All of that to say, it was strange for me to hear of anything novel or unfamiliar. The burial habits of various cultures, I must admit, had never been of very great interest to me. There was too much death in my past for me to make a hobby of it. But to be accused of being hunted by someone or something of which I had never even heard was highly disorienting.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who or what is the Karaxanzada?”
He glanced at me in disbelief, which I interpreted as disappointment. I could well understand. I was disappointed in myself.
“You mean you do not know him?”
“No.” So it was a him. That told me very very little. But he was powerful, clearly, if he controlled the Alert Devices. Was he connected to the Triune Council? My mind raced. Karaxanzada. The word was of Turkik origin. I journeyed deeper into the depths of my knowledge. Kara meant black. And xanzada…
“The black prince,” Bolat said. “He is the overlord of Alma-Ata. And you have, somehow, caught his attention.”
“Prince! That’s it! I knew that.”
“You mean you do know who he is?”
“No, no I mean I knew what the word Xanzada meant.” How could I have forgotten that? There was a popular book among Earthlings and Earth enthusiasts called the Little Prince, which was widely translated. I’d been looking at a Qazaq version of it just two days prior.
“But you have no idea who I’m talking about?”
“No, not a clue.”
He looked at me again, that same look on his face. “Then who did you think you were running from?”
I shrugged. “The Triune Council, I suppose.”
He shook his head. “If they were looking, you’d be dead already.”
“But you guessed that yourself.”
“I was joking. But this clearly is no joke. Niqe, I don’t know what things are like on Tynon. I’ve heard there are planets out there that are more or less Utopias. Planets where people don’t die until they’ve lived two hundred healthy years. Planets where peace has reigned for a thousand years. But this is Earth. Here life is run by the rich and the powerful, and they’re not afraid to do away with anyone who gets in their way.”
I was silent for a moment. I’d never heard anyone talk like that before. “I’ve heard stories of the council,” I said at last. “Frightening stories. Enough to scare me. But I didn’t suppose they were all true.”
“Does anyone really know the truth?” Bolat replied. “Dissenters disappear. Here a city is wiped out for no apparent reason. There are rumors of labor camps in the Western States. Another group of terrorists has been decimated. The Council is the only real god left to us. They own it all, Niqe. They own the money, the resources, the truth. It’s their world, and we are simply living in it, if one can really call it living.”
“Why let them rule? Can’t the people fight back?’
“If not one tyrant, then another,” he replied. “The people are powerless.”
“But don’t they know the truth about the Council?”
“Those that wish to know the truth do, and they suffer for it. Those who are happy to be spoon-fed lies are content enough and will never question the status quo.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s the way of the world.”
“How do you know so much?”
“It doesn’t take intelligence to discover the truth,” Bolat said. “It just takes resignation and a propensity to despair.”
I shook my head. “You do not strike me as being hopeless. On the contrary, you are defiant. You are helping me. You are not afraid of them.”
“I am angry,” came his reply. “We all must cling to something.”
So, he had anger, and I had guilt. What a wonder the world still spins as it does, when we are nothing more than broken pieces of the past.
“So who is this Karaxanzada?”
“Let’s just say, dictatorship is a full-time job. The Triune Council has their hands full. They cannot rule every province and metropolis. So, new lords emerge. They buy enough power, buy enough people, and suddenly the Triune council would have their work cut out for them if they tried to squelch them all. So they let them play their games and do not bother them, as long as they pay their tribute to the Council and offer due allegiance if necessary.”
“So they are essentially the Council’s minions? They do their dirty work?”
“Not exactly. My guess is that most of them don’t actually support the Council and are committed to them in word more than in deed. Besides, they’ve more than enough of their own dark dealings to carry out. Take the Karaxanzada, for example. They say he is the most powerful overlord in all of Qazaqstan, with a reign that stretches into the southern provinces as well – Qyrgyzstan, Uzbeqistan, even into Tajiqistan and Turqmenistan. He essentially runs all of Middle Asia. That is no small task, and requires no little amount of death and threats.”
“So then he is to be feared just as much as the Council?”
“I suppose that depends on the nature of your crimes.” He glanced at me, as if expecting a confession.
“Why have I never heard of him?”
“Because he prefers not to be talked about.”
“But how would he know?”
“Trust me, he knows.”
“Does everybody know about him?”
“They know enough not to speak.”
“Then why are you speaking of him?”
“Because he is looking for you, and so I know you cannot be on his side. And by your own admissions, you’re not working for the Council either. That makes you the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met. If you were not from off-planet, I’d have never said half of what you’ve just heard. And I’d appreciate if you didn’t go repeating them. But you must know, Niqe, what it means to be in danger here. It means disappearing. It means death. It means losing the people you love. And once you start down that road – once you’ve made enemies for yourself, there is no turning back.”
“You speak as though you’ve started down that road yourself.”
“I’ve done enough talking. Tell me why he is looking for you.”
“I don’t really know.”
“Not good enough. You really think I’ll believe that? It’s clear you knew someone was watching you or you wouldn’t be trying to hitchhike to Moscow.”
“Well, yes.”
He sighed. “Come now, you still do not trust me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m putting myself in danger to get you to where you need to go, but I don’t have to if you aren’t willing to cooperate. We can turn around right now and I’ll take you straight back to Alma-Ata. Is that what you want?” The car slowed.
“No! Fine. I’ll tell you but you must promise me that you will tell no one. No one.”
“Of course.”
“Ok. So, I did discover that somebody was watching me. It was the taxi drivers that gave it away.”
“The taxi drivers?”
“They knew too much. And one of them let it slip.”
He whistled softly, just as people in books are said to do. “I never would have suspected that, but honestly that’s a really great tactic if you’re tracking someone,” he mused. “They seem so innocent, like if you can trust anyone it’s probably them. Ok, so you find out you’re being watched. But why?”
“That’s what I don’t exactly know. I mean, that is to say, thus far I’ve not done all that much very worthy of attention. I mean to, of course, one day. I mean, don’t we all? But I haven’t yet. There are enough foreigners and ex-ters here, and I’m not vastly different than the lot of them.” I paused, hoping he’d buy it and I could fall back into quiet obscurity.
“Yes, but you must have been doing something to catch their attention.”
“Well, I suppose I’ve been asking a lot of questions…”
“Who have you been asking?”
“Everyone. And, well, taxi drivers. They seemed – safe.”
“Ha. What sort of questions?”
“Oh, just, you know, about everything. The Council. History. The assumed location of various hidden objects.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Dang, Niqe, could you have been more suspicious? What hidden objects are you looking for? The lost ark?”
“Well, it’s more of a… place. Sort of.”
“What, like Atlantis?”
“No,” I huffed. Then, “And please don’t tell me you actually believe in Atlantis. There is zero historical proof of such a place.”
He shrugged. “So what then?”
“I’m looking for a library.”
“A library? That is a feat. What for? All you could ever want to know is on the Database.” He said that last piece somewhat sarcastically.
“Not all.”
“And what makes you think this library exists? Where is it supposed to be?”
“Well, as far as I can tell, in Moscow.”
“And you found that out from the taxi drivers?”
“No. They really were very little help. A prisoner told me. I processed him, saw he was from Earth, defector from the Triune Council. I was curious. He told me he’d gotten too close to the truth.”
“And so you decided to come look for it?”
“Yes.”
“Why go through all that work for some random library?”
“It’s not just a random library. It belonged to Ivan the Terrible. And then it simply disappeared. And according to my source, if found, its contents would change everything.”
Bolat looked at me again, shaking his head in disbelief. “So, you are risking your life for a few books?”
“Well, I didn’t expect such opposition.”
“But why would the Karaxanzada care about this library?”
“Perhaps they know what’s in it. Perhaps they are afraid of it being found.”
“Must be some library.”
“I’m counting on it.”
“And, how are you planning to find it?”
“By following the clues.”
“What clues?”
“I’ll know when I find them.”
“So that’s it? You just show up in Moscow and hope you find a clue? Hundreds of years have passed since it’s gone missing and you just expect to waltz into Moscow and stumble across a clue.”
I did not like his tone. It sounded far too much like the voice in my head that had been anxiously nagging at me for the last six months. “Look, so it sounds crazy. I know. I get it. So just be glad your job ends long before I cross that bridge.”
He shook his head once more and we drove on in a silence that lasted far shorter than I’d wished.
“I don’t get it. We’re all doing our best to get off-planet. Or at least make it West, to the United Nations or the Eastern States. But here you are, in the most forgotten of places. Why does it matter to you what is in some random library on Earth?”
“My mother was from Earth.”
A pause. “Was?”
I nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
I shrugged, training my eyes on the horizon so he wouldn’t see how foggy they were getting.
I must have fallen asleep, though I’m not sure how I managed such a feat with pulse still racing and adrenaline at an all time high. But I woke, and so I know I must have been asleep. The sun was low in the sky, golden light angling over empty wastelands, and the car was parked on the side of a deserted highway. Bolat stood a few measures before me smoking a cigarette, eyes fixed on the great expanse of land that spread out unending before us.
I guess I hadn’t really gotten a good look at him until that point. Sitting in his passenger seat made it sort of hard. Now I gave him a long, thorough appraisal. He was tall, and could only be described as solid. Not all Qazaqs could carry such a description – a vast majority were thin things, stitched together by spirit and sky. But he was the sort one could imagine was descended from a line of warriors. His hair was worn short, his eyes were dark brown. As was the case for most Qazaqs I had met, his shoes were impeccably clean. I looked down at my own, scuffed and dusty. They were a dead give away as to my identity, if nothing else.
With a flick of his cigarette he rolled his shoulders and headed back to the car. I quickly shifted my gaze.
“Where are we?” I asked as he climbed back in and restarted the car.
“You mean, how long were you asleep?”
I shrugged in affirmation.
“Two hours at least,” he said. “We’re nearing the lake.”
“Balkhash?”
He nodded. I stretched, and felt a cavernous hollow in my stomach.
“What are the odds there’s food around here?”
He laughed, and I felt that it was at my expense.
“What do you think?” He gestured to the endless steppe.
I sighed. In all my planning, how had I forgotten food?
“There’s a box of apples in the backseat if you can reach them.” Why did that surprise me? I twisted in my seat, and was met by far more than a box of apples.
“I don’t suppose the bread is up for grabs?”
He smirked. “Only if you give me half.”
I grabbed one fresh wheel and tearing it in two, complied with his demands. It disappeared in silence.
“How long were you in Alma-Ata?” he asked at length.
“Nine months.”
“And how did you find it?”
Usually, when asked such a question, I was all flattery. The more I praised that city, the more likely I would get information in return. But even the consumption of soft bread could not dull my after-nap angst.
“It is a strange place. Beautiful, of course, especially in spring, but strange, the way the new has grown up with the old, been planted in the empty spaces. There is no consistency, save the lilac trees, the fountains in the parks, the yellow leaves of the birch in autumn.”
Bolat did not reply at first. Did not agree, but did not disagree either. “And what of Tynon? I suppose it is a place of perfection.”
Tynon. It was a planet of cities, one metropolis merging into another. I’d been born in one of 7 billion, one of the smaller ones. There was no waste of space, no land that was not curated, nothing mismatched, no being late, no lingering over cups of tea, no relics from the past. “Perfection is in the eye of the beholder.”
“Sure, sure,” Bolat agreed. “But of course you would not find it in Alma-Ata. I know we’re worlds behind the times.”
It was a different response from the beaming pride I usually found. “It’s only to be expected. It’s been, what, 70 years since you discovered you weren’t alone in the universe?” I couldn’t say it without a hint of laughter in my voice. The idea was preposterous. But true.
“Tynon, it’s not so far, is it? Andromeda 1? Star B731?”
“I’m impressed.”
“I’ve got my sights set on Star System 40. Shinta.”
“Why do you want to leave? Earth isn’t – so bad.”
“Not so bad. Thanks. Not so bad goes a long way.”
“But I mean, look at this place,” I said, sweeping an arm to encompass the whole of the steppe. “We don’t have anything like this on Tynon. It’s… well, it’s your home, isn’t it? Why leave?”
“You tell me.”
But I had never had a home, not really. It wasn’t a thought I often dwelled on. But that land – did I mention the way it tore you to shreds, even as it stitched you back together? There was no escaping one’s thoughts with all that space. There was nowhere to hide from them. We sped north. A thin stretch of red appeared on the horizon, the lake set afire by the sinking sun. It spread out to my right, a field of shining glass, a great mirror that I dared not gaze into. In the end I found myself glad for the darkness. It made me feel less alone.