Dmitry Glukhovsky - Metro 2034

Which of the two had asked Homer to follow him? The one who devoured people, or the one who fought with monsters? Which of them had fallen in the phantom battle at Polyanka? And who had spoken to the old man afterwards, asking for help?

And what if… What if Homer was supposed to kill him, what if that was his true mission? What if the final vestiges of the former brigadier, almost completely crushed and suffocated, had dragged the old man into this expedition so that he could see everything for himself, so that he would kill Hunter out of horror or mercy with a treacherous bullet to the back of the head in some dark tunnel somewhere? The brigadier couldn’t take his own life, so he was looking for an executioner. An executioner who wouldn’t need to be asked, who had to be discerning enough to do everything himself, and deceive that other presence inside Hunter, the one who was swelling, growing stronger by the hour and didn’t want to die.

But even if Homer could muster the courage, even if he could seize the right moment and take Hunter by surprise, what good would it do? He couldn’t halt the plague all on his own. So was there nothing left for the old man to do in this double-bind but observe and record? Homer could guess where the brigadier was headed. According to rumour, the semi-mythical Order, to which Miller and Hunter apparently both belonged, had established its base at Smolensk Station, in the underbelly of Polis. Its legionaries were called upon to defend the Metro and its inhabitants against dangers that the armies of ordinary stations couldn’t cope with. That was all that the Order allowed to be known about itself.

It was absurd for the old man even to think of getting into Smolensk, which was as impregnable as Alamut Castle. And there was no point in any case: in order to meet the brigadier again, all he had to do was go back to Dobrynin… And wait until the groove that Hunter was travelling along inevitably led the brigadier there too, to the scene of his future crime and the final station in this strange story. Should Homer let him deal with the plague-carriers, disinfect Tula and then… Carry out his unspoken will? The old man had thought his role was different: to write, not to shoot, to bestow immortality, not take life. Not to judge or interfere, but to allow the book’s heroes to act for themselves. But when the blood is knee-deep all around, it’s hard not to get smeared with it. Thank God he had let the girl go with that trickster. At least he had spared Sasha the sight of the appalling bloodbath that she wouldn’t have been able to prevent anyway.

He checked the station clock: if the brigadier was on schedule, then Homer still had a little time in hand. A couple of hours to be himself. To invite Polis to one last tango.

‘And how were you planning to earn the right to get in?’ Sasha asked.

‘Well… It’s stupid, of course… With my flute. I thought it could put something right. You know, music is the most fleeting and ephemeral of the arts. It exists for exactly as long as the instrument is playing, and then disappears without trace in an instant. But nothing infects people as quickly as music. Nothing else gives them such deep wounds that heal so slowly. Once a melody has moved you, it stays with you forever. It’s the distilled essence of beauty. I thought I could heal the soul’s deformity with it.’

‘You’re strange,’ she said.

‘But now I’ve realised that a leper can’t heal other lepers. That if I don’t confess everything to you, the door will never be opened for me.’

‘Did you think I’d forgive you? For your lies and your cruelty?’ asked Sasha, glancing at him sharply.

‘Will you give me one more chance?’ Leonid asked and suddenly smiled at her. ‘After all, you say we all have the right to that.’

The girl didn’t answer, wary of being drawn into his strange games again. A moment ago she had almost believed in the musician’s repentance, but now was he starting again?

‘In everything I told you, one thing was true,’ he said. ‘There is a cure for the sickness.’

‘A medicine?’ Sasha asked with a shiver, willing to be deceived again.

‘It’s not a medicine. Not tablets and not a serum. A few years ago we had an outbreak of the disease at Preobrazhenskaya Station.’

‘But why doesn’t even Hunter know about it?’

‘There wasn’t an epidemic. It fizzled out on its own. These bacteria are very sensitive to radiation. Something happens to them when they’re irradiated… I think they stop dividing. And that stops the disease. It was discovered by chance. The answer lies on the surface, so to speak.’

‘Honestly?’ She took hold of his hand in her excitement.

‘Honestly.’ He put his other hand over hers. ‘You just need to contact them and explain…’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this earlier? It’s so simple. All those people who have died in the meantime…’ She freed her hand and her eyes glittered.

‘In one day? Hardly… I didn’t want you to stay with that butcher,’ he muttered. ‘And I was planning to tell you everything right from the start. Only I wanted to swap the secret for you.’

‘And swap me for other people’s lives!’ Sasha said angrily. ‘That’s not worth a single life!’

‘I’d swap mine for it,’ said the musician, jiggling his eyebrow.

‘It’s not for you to decide! Get up! We’ve got to run back… Before he reaches Tula.’ She jabbed one finger at the watch, whispered as she worked out the time and gasped. ‘There’s only three hours left!’

‘What for? I can use the communications here. They’ll call Hansa and explain everything. We don’t need to run anywhere. Especially since we might not be in time.’

‘No!’ said Sasha, shaking her head vehemently. ‘No! he won’t believe it. He won’t want to believe it. I have to tell him myself. Explain to him…’

‘And then what will happen? Are you going to give yourself to him in your joy?’

‘What business is that of yours?’ she snapped, but then, instinctively sensing the right way to handle a man in love, she added in a gentler voice. ‘I don’t want anything from him. And now I can’t manage without you.’

‘You’re learning from me how to lie,’ the musician said with a sour smile. ‘All right,’ he sighed helplessly. ‘Let’s go.’

It took them half an hour to reach Sport Station: the sentries had changed, and Leonid had to drum into their heads all over again how a girl with no passport could cross the borders of the Red Line. Sasha watched the time tensely and the musician watched her – it was very obvious that he was hesitating, struggling with himself.

On the platform, scrawny new conscripts were piling up bales of goods on a stinking old trolley, tipsy workmen were doggedly pretending to caulk the broken veins of pipes and little kids in uniform were learning off a serious adult song. In the space of five minutes two attempts were made to check their documents, and the next check – when they were almost in the tunnel leading to Frunze already – dragged out beyond all endurance.

Time was flying past. And the girl wasn’t even sure she still had those pitiful two and a half hours – no one could stop Hunter. The young soldiers had already finished loading the trolley and it was moving towards them, panting as it picked up speed. And Leonid made up his mind.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ he said. ‘But I can’t hold you back. I was thinking of making us arrive late, so there’d be nothing left for you to search for. But I realise that still won’t make you mine anyway. Being honest is the worst way of all to seduce a girl, but I’m tired of lying. When I’m with you I feel ashamed of myself all the time. Choose for yourself who you want to be with.’