He shouldered his bag and walked. The gun he’d taken from the VKBD man in Pir-Anghelsky Park was a comforting weight in his pocket.
He wandered among vast hangars and metal sheds. Chemical processing plants. Yards stacked with enormous pieces of shaped steeclass="underline" curved components for even larger constructions. There was a river running thick and green under lamplight and a poisonous-looking artificial lake: scarfs of mist trailed across the surface and the acrid rising air warmed his face. Klaxons blared and gangs of workers in overalls changed shift. Parallel Sector patrols cruised the main roads in unmarked black saloons. It was easy to see them coming: he stepped into the shadows to let them pass.
For an hour he walked steadily, keeping to one direction as far as he could: east, he thought, though there was no way of telling. Vaporous effluent columns from a thousand vents and chimneys merged overhead in a low dense lid of cloud that shut out the night sky and reflected Vitigorsk’s baleful orange glow.
A cluster of signs at an intersection pointed to meaningless numbered sectors but one caught his attention: prototype–assembly. Cresting a low hill, he found himself looking out across a floodlit concrete plain. From the centre rose a huge citadel of steel capped with a rounded dome. It resembled a massively engorged grain silo with stubby fins at the base. The trucks parked at the foot of it gave some sense of scale: if it had been a building, it would have been twenty or thirty floors high. Lom had seen pictures of the Proof of Concept–everyone had–and this thing was the same but much larger: a parent to a child.
From the cover of a low wall he took a couple of photographs just for the sake of it–he couldn’t see what use Kistler could make of them, even if the facility was being kept secret from the Central Committee–and slipped away.
He glanced at his watch.
Almost 1 a.m.
He felt like he was playing at espionage.
What he needed was someone to talk to. Human intelligence.
PROJECT CONTROL. INSTITUTE OF RESEARCH. RESIDENTIAL CAMPUS.
It was a labyrinth of office blocks and apartment buildings, all crammed in and pressing against one another cheek by jowclass="underline" ramps and bollards and courtyards, walkways and flights of shallow concrete steps. Scrappy shrubs in concrete containers. Unlit ground-floor windows, service roads and areas of broken paving. A yard for refuse bins. Lom could see into uncurtained corridors. A few lights still burned in upper rooms.
Steps led up from a square with benches and flower beds to a revolving door. He heard voices, hushed but urgent. A couple standing in the splash of yellow light at the foot of the steps, arguing.
‘No, Sergei. Please. I have to go now. I must go in.’
The woman was young. Slight and not tall, with cropped hair. Neat, sober office clothes. The man was bigger, older. Aggressive. Standing too close.
‘Why not, Mikkala? What’s wrong with me?’
‘Nothing’s wrong with you, Sergei. It’s just… It’s late. I have to go.’
He grabbed her arm. ‘Come on, Mikkala,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it. I’m good. I’m the best.’
She pulled her arm away and stepped back. ‘I said no.’
‘You fucking bitch. All evening you’ve been… What’s a man supposed to think? You can’t just turn round and say no, you cold fucking…’ He reached out and pulled her towards him. Moved his head to hers. She turned her face away.
‘Please, Sergei.’
Lom stepped out of the shadows.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s happening? Is this man bothering you?’
Sergei turned. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ He was swaying on his feet. Squinting. Lom smelled the aquavit thick on his breath.
‘You should leave her alone,’ said Lom.
‘It’s nothing to do with you, arsehole. Piss off. I’ll break your fucking neck.’
Lom ignored him. ‘Is this where you live?’ he said to the woman. ‘Come with me. I’ll take you inside.’
‘I said piss off, fuck-pig,’ Sergei growled. ‘You can’t push me around.’
‘Sergei,’ said the woman. ‘Don’t.’
Sergei made a shambling lunge and swung a fist at Lom. He was big but soft and clumsy, and there wasn’t much speed or power in the punch. Lom could have stepped out of the way. But he didn’t. He raised his arm awkwardly as if to ward off the blow but he let it through. Turned his head slightly to take it on the side of the nose.
It hurt. A lot. He rocked back and put his hands to his face. Felt the warm blood flooding from his nostrils.
‘You hit me!’ he said to Sergei. ‘I’m bleeding.’
‘You were lucky, pig. Next time I’ll break your fucking spine. And yours, bitch. I’ll see you again. I’ll ruin your fucking career. I’ll ruin your life. People will listen to me.’
He turned and walked away, swaggering, unsteady. Lom tried to staunch the bleeding with the sleeve of the driver’s coat. Smeared it around. It made quite a mess. His whole face felt stiff and sore.
‘Are you all right?’ said the young woman. She was thin and pale. Narrow shoulders. Her eyes glistened blurrily. She had been drinking too. ‘Did Sergei hurt you? ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Not much,’ said Lom. ‘Not really. I’ll be fine in a moment.’ He pressed the back of his hand to his nose and brought it away covered in blood. Red and gleaming in the light from the doorway. ‘I could do with a little cold water. And perhaps a towel. Is there somewhere…?’
The young woman hesitated. Made up her mind.
‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I’ll find you something.’
4
Lom sat on the bed in Mikkala Avril’s room. She brought a bowl of cold water and a couple of rough grey towels. He dipped the end of one in the bowl and dabbed at his face.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got a mirror. There’s one across the way, in the bathroom, but it’s women only. Actually we’re not meant to have men in this building at all.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Lom. ‘I’ll manage. You tell me how I’m doing. Is there much blood?’
She sat down next to him on the bed and studied his face. Her face was very thin, her eyes unnaturally wide.
She hasn’t been eating. Pushing herself too hard.
‘There’s still blood coming from your nose,’ she said. ‘There’s some in your hair, and it’s all over your coat.’
He wet the towel again and pressed it against the side of his nose.
‘I don’t even know your name,’ he said. His voice was muffled by the cloth. ‘I’m Vissarion.’
‘Mikkala. And… thank you. For what you did just now.’
Lom waved it away. ‘It was nothing.’
‘But I feel awful,’ said Mikkala. ‘I was so stupid; I should never have gone with Sergei and got drunk like that, it’s not the kind of thing I do. Ever. I’m not… I wasn’t good at it. I didn’t handle it. It all went wrong. Everything’s gone wrong here. I was so proud when I came, but nothing’s going right…’
She was really quite drunk. Words tumbled out.
‘Is Sergei your boyfriend?’ said Lom.
‘No!’ She shook her head fiercely. ‘No, no, not at all–nothing like that. I’ve met him two or three times, that’s all. It’s just… I don’t know many people here. I work on my own; there’s no one I can talk to, and the resurrectionists are more friendly than the others. They drink and talk and they’re not so cold and stuck-up. I started spending evenings with them. It was… a mistake.’
‘How long have you been here?’ said Lom. ‘At Vitigorsk?’