Alex Shvartsman has been making a name for himself as a writer, an anthology editor (for Baen Books and his own company), and a publisher (as UFO Publishing he has published the Unidentified Funny Objects series as well as other humorous anthologies, most recentlyThe Cackle of Cthulhu).
"I'm going out, Mom," Igor called out from his room. He grabbed a leather jacket, then retrieved the shoebox he kept atop the wardrobe where his younger siblings couldn't reach.
"Dinner is almost ready, Igor," his mother shouted back from the kitchen over the sound of the radio. "Can you wait?"
"Can't, Mom. It's work." Cheap posters of Hollywood action stars stared at him from where they were affixed to the fading wallpaper. Igor opened the box and took out an old police-issue Makarov pistol.
His boss, whose last name was also Makarov, had laughed when he'd given it to him. "This is the official handgun for anyone in my crew. No Nagants or Tokarevs, not for my men." This Makarov had no connection to his namesake gun designer from the '40s, but he acted as though the ongoing popularity of this model fifty years later was somehow his personal accomplishment.
Igor checked the pistol and put it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Although he never fired it outside of the shooting range, it made him feel like the badass heroes from the foreign films, the ones who could walk away from explosions and mayhem behind them without flinching or looking back.
"Keep out of trouble." His mother's cracking voice betrayed her apprehension.
Neither of them liked the idea of him working for Makarov, but he had little choice. Ever since Gorbachev let loose with this Perestroika business, the country was coming apart at the seams. With no government funds coming in, the newly privatized factories had cut their staff. Igor's father was laid off and couldn't find steady work. Hyperinflation wiped out whatever meager savings his family had. The money seventeen-year-old Igor was able to bring in was indispensible to their family's survival.
A brand-new 1990 Mercedes-Benz 600 was parked halfway on the sidewalk in front of the building. It was painted a garish shade of dark purple, clearly an aftermarket job.
Makarov was one of the New Russians, a small group of opportunists who'd found a way to grow rich by appropriating the crumbling bits of the Soviet empire. Among the New Russians it was not merely acceptable but expected to flaunt their wealth, and Makarov was no exception. In the city where unemployment soared toward fifty percent, his fleet of purple foreign cars paraded his opulence.
Igor climbed in the back.
"You're late," said Sharik without turning.
The driver was a grim older man. No one knew his real name save for, perhaps, Makarov himself. To everyone else he was just Sharik, and he didn't seem to mind being called by a common dog's name. He wore a sleeveless shirt displaying heavily tattooed forearms which told the story of years spent within the Russian penal system.
"I'm right on time. You're early," Igor snapped back, then turned to the man in the front passenger seat. "Hello, Leonid Nikolayevich."
"Hello, Igor," said the geologist.
They rode in silence for a time. Leonid looked more fidgety than usual, chewing his lower lip. "This is a bad idea," he told Sharik. "I don't think Mak should be double-crossing those Chechens. They're bandits, not businessmen. They don't play nice."
"Shut up, four-eyes," said Sharik. "You're not paid to think. Besides, this is not something you should be yapping about in front of the kid."
Igor frowned. He knew what Makarov was up to. He was young, not stupid. Sharik didn't trust him, but then Sharik didn't trust anyone except for the boss, as best as he could tell.
They rode the rest of the way in silence and arrived at a warehouse on the outskirts of the city, where several armed guards were posted at the entrance. Sharik dropped him and the geologist off, waved to the guards, and left on another errand.
The large industrial building was mostly empty, with only a handful of wooden crates stacked by one of the walls. A few stools were placed near the crates. Makarov and a group of his men sat there. Another stool housed several glasses and a half-empty bottle of vodka.
Makarov was telling some kind of a raunchy joke. He raised his glass in greeting, the clear liquid sloshing inside. His hand was steady and he didn't slur his words, which meant he had kept his drinking to a minimum.
"Good evening, Mak." Igor knew his employer preferred to be called by his nickname.
Makarov wore a bright-red jacket over a yellow T-shirt and black jeans. A thick gold chain hung around his neck and a large Rolex gleamed on his arm. On his face was a self-satisfied smirk of a man who was denied nothing, and he carried himself with the swagger of a 1920s gangster from an American movie. Igor thought that Makarov couldn't act or look any more a stereotype of a New Russian if he tried.
"My customers will be here soon. For now, relax, have a drink or two. Just not so many that it will affect your skills, eh, Leonid?" Makarov chuckled and filled their glasses.
After imbibing some liquid courage, Leonid spoke up. "This isn't right, boss. We have a good thing going with the Chechens. Why rock the boat?"
Makarov looked his underling up and down. "This is business," he said. "The Chechens aren't our friends, they aren't our family. They're just customers, and they were outbid."
"But when you made the deal with the Chechens you said you wanted to sell them the guns because they'd take them far away from here." The geologist gesticulated as he talked. "Who knows what these new people might do?"
Igor agreed with Leonid's sentiment, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Selling weapons was a recent thing, but not entirely unexpected. Makarov earned enormous profits by selling off whatever he could get his hands on to anyone who would pay: heavy machinery from the now-shuttered factories, reams of copper wiring meant for maintaining the city infrastructure, even Soviet-era statues of Lenin that foreign collectors wanted for some reason. All of these things belonged to the Russian people, but in the post-Soviet chaos there was no strong government, no police force with authority and will to stop the profiteers. As things deteriorated, it became possible for Makarov to pilfer even military supplies, and he jumped at the opportunity.
Igor figured Makarov would blow up at Leonid for his questions, but the boss was in a good mood.
"The Chechens are crazy and they're still in our backyard, not so far away," said Makarov. "But these new people, they'll export the guns to Africa or South America, to some nasty little war in a place you can't even find on the map. And they'll pay extra for the privilege. Blood diamonds they can't easily move in Europe, so we get them at a discount rate. Once you examine them, of course." He saluted Leonid with his glass. "It's a win-win. You see that now?"
Leonid nodded reluctantly. "Yes, Mak."
"Good." Makarov grinned. "Stick with me, boys, and I'll keep you in vodka. I've got plans for us, big plans." He drained the rest of his glass.
Makarov's business associates showed up fifteen minutes later. There were two of them, a man and a woman, dressed in nearly identical black business suits. The man carried a shoulder bag.
Something was strange about the pair, though Igor couldn't quite put his finger on it. They walked and carried themselves in a slightly odd way. Their facial features were exotic: round eyes that were just a little too large, ruddy complexions, weak chins, and short earlobes. Igor wondered where they were from, wondered if Makarov knew, or cared.
Makarov and the foreigners greeted each other. They spoke Russian fluently and with only the vaguest hint of an accent, as though they were used to Slavic pronunciations. Could they be from Poland? Czechoslovakia?
The man handed over a bag. Makarov opened it, peered inside, and passed it to Leonid. "Do your thing."
The geologist propped the bag on one of the stools, revealing the rough diamonds inside. They looked like chunks of glass. Still embedded in rock and dirt, they glinted in the pale light that emanated from the incandescent bulbs suspended along the ceiling.
Igor craned his neck and peered over Leonid's shoulder. "Whoa, those are some big rocks."
"They aren't cut. Cutting them will make them lose over half of their total volume," said Leonid. He retrieved tools from his own bag: a jeweler's loupe, a microscope, and a few other items Igor didn't recognize.
Makarov relied on Leonid to authenticate precious stones and metals, which were the standard currency among the wealthy and the connected because the value of the ruble was in constant freefall.
Igor always thought his boss an eccentric for hiring a geologist. Any jeweler could have handled the task. Igor went to the library once, and read about identifying diamonds. He thought that even he could probably do a reasonable job of it, given a magnifying glass and a lighter. But, as was the case with his cars and his women, Makarov was accustomed to buying the best of everything, and that included hiring experts.
Leonid was taking his time, running all sorts of tests on the stones, and even studying some of the dirt they came with. Makarov opened one of the crates and was showing off a Kalashnikov to the two foreigners.
Igor studied the stones from a distance. In their rough form, they looked nothing like the gems he'd seen in the windows of expensive jewelry shops. It took a trained eye to recognize their true value, and a trained hand to cut the stone properly and bring all that potential to fruition. He couldn't help thinking how modern Russia was so much like a rough diamond: all that potential locked inside. But would it ever truly blossom into a gem if men like Makarov did the cutting?
Leonid carefully returned the stones to the bag, got up and waved Makarov over. While the foreigners were busy examining the merchandise, Makarov joined him. The two of them walked away and engaged in an animated discussion that lasted for nearly two minutes.
Makarov's men knew their boss; the expression on his face made them focus, primed them to expect trouble.
He confronted the foreigners. "What are you trying to pull?"
"Is there a problem?" asked the woman. She was holding a Kalashnikov, but Igor knew it wasn't loaded.
"You tell me." Makarov crossed his arms. "My expert tells me something is wrong about these stones."
"The precious stones were selected to your specifications," said the man.
Neither of the foreigners seemed nervous to Igor, but then, he supposed, arms merchants were accustomed to dangerous dealings.
"My geologist isn't happy," said Makarov. "And when he isn't happy, I get upset. Me being upset isn't good for business."
"Where are they from?" Leonid interjected himself into the conversation before Makarov could lose his cool and go too far with the threats. "There's no question these are authentic diamonds, but the impurities are highly unusual, and the lamproite matrix material is like nothing I've ever seen."
The two foreigners exchanged glances.
"You've already confirmed their authenticity," said the woman. "This should suffice. We prefer not to reveal the location of our mines."
"Not good enough," said Makarov. "If Leonid is suspicious, anyone I try to sell the diamonds to will be dubious as well."
"Meteoroid!” said Leonid. "They must've found extraterrestrial material with diamonds in it."
Everyone looked at the geologist.
"What, like from space?" asked Makarov.
"Earth has been bombarded by matter from space over the course of millions of years," said Leonid. "Some of it contains diamonds thought to be formed from the shock of collision between asteroids. All the ones I've heard of have been tiny, not like these." He puffed up, clearly proud of his deduction. "Most people wouldn't figure this out, but I was educated in Leningrad."
Makarov began to say something but was interrupted by the sound of gunfire outside.
Makarov's men reached for their weapons. It was what they were there for: extra muscle for a deal that presented an alluring target for anyone brazen enough to take advantage. No one outside of this warehouse was supposed to know when and where the exchange was going down. Igor didn't even know where he'd end up when Sharik picked him up earlier that evening. Sharik! He wasn't in the building. Could he have double-crossed them?
Makarov made eye contact with Igor and pointed at the foreigners. "Watch these two!" He turned to the others. "That crate over there. The guns in it are loaded."
Igor ushered his charges toward the far corner of the warehouse. He didn't think they were behind the attack. They'd arrived unarmed and had brought the gemstones. There was little for them to gain from the violence. Makarov must've made the same calculation, or his orders would have been different.
The deafening sound of an explosion nearly stunned Igor. It took him a few seconds to recover, and when he did he saw at least a dozen men with automatic rifles pouring in through the jagged hole blasted in the wall, advancing through the debris and the smoke.
The Chechens! Igor recognized a few of them from Makarov's past dealings. It couldn't have been Sharik, then. He hated the Chechens; if the dog was ever to betray his master, it wouldn't be to them.
The attackers advanced into the warehouse. Then they saw Makarov's men, armed with AK-47s. The two sides opened fire.
It was a bloodbath. Men on both sides died in a hail of bullets.
It must have been the adrenalin, but everything seemed to move very slowly to Igor. He thought the Chechens must have expected token resistance, must not have realized how many men Makarov would have or how well they would be armed, else they wouldn't walk into the enemy line of fire like this.
He held his pistol in both hands, reluctant to fire, reluctant to draw attention to himself and his unarmed wards. It worked for a short while. Then one of the Chechens turned his attention to him and the foreigners.
Igor and the attacker stared right at each other. Somehow, Igor was focusing on the wrong details: the bead of sweat on the man's forehead, the charcoal stain on his tan shirt. Igor couldn't bring himself to fire at a live target. The man turned his rifle toward him and squeezed the trigger.
A curtain of light, far brighter than the dim glow produced by the light bulbs, materialized between him and the attackers. Bullets bounced against the rectangular barrier as though it was a concrete wall. The impossible shield was pellucid and yet bright. Now everyone in the room was facing them.
Igor turned around to find one of the strangers focusing intently on a small sphere in his palm. The woman held a similar gadget, and cast wary glances at both groups of armed men.
It didn’t take long for the Chechens to realize their bullets couldn't penetrate the barrier, and they went back to firing at Makarov and his men. The battle resumed, with Igor and the two foreigners stuck as spectators behind the light shield.
The entire skirmish couldn't have taken more than a minute, but it felt far longer to Igor. Powerless to act, but also thankful for the protection—however strange and incomprehensible the source of it was to him—he watched men die.
He saw Leonid fall backward, his body riddled with bullets. The light went out from the geologist's eyes.
This was what the guns Makarov was selling were meant to do, be it in Grozny, Chechnya or in some remote part of the world where they had palm trees. And now this violence was happening in front of him. Was happening to him.
He was too young to have personally experienced the horrors of the Soviet regime that he'd read about in the papers, but whatever atrocities the communists were guilty of, at least criminals hadn't battled it out openly in their time. He felt like he was seeing the end of civilization, the preview of things to come.
And who were these arms dealers exactly? Wizards? Time travelers? Aliens? He thought back to the extraterrestrial diamonds. Aliens fit the bill. He'd read Efremov, and Lem, and Bulychev. Aliens weren’t supposed to be like this. Sinister or benevolent, what could they possibly want with a bunch of old AK-47 rifles? Although his mind was working in overdrive, it refused to process the surprise of the discovery, refused to cope with it. For now, whoever the foreigners were, they were keeping him safe and that was enough.
The fight ended with most of the Chechens dead or dying on the ground, and only a handful of the defenders, including Makarov himself, left standing. The last couple of intruders fled through the opening their explosive had created in the wall, Makarov's men firing at their backs.
The foreigner made the light shield disappear. Then they heard more shots from the outside, and more screams.
"Follow me," shouted Makarov as he raced toward Igor and the foreigners.
Whatever was coming next, he wanted the protection of the light shield, too. He and his men positioned themselves around the foreigners when yet another group entered the warehouse.
This time it was Sharik. He and his men advanced more carefully than the Chechens, entering the warehouse simultaneously through the front door and the blast hole in the wall.
Makarov held off ordering his men to fire, perhaps holding out hope that Sharik was still his loyal dog, that he had brought reinforcements to fight the Chechens. Igor thought his boss was a fool; Sharik was clearly making a power play and Makarov let his men come in and disperse along the walls. The foreigners were not so trusting. Both of them activated their light shields this time.
Sharik took a step forward and addressed Makarov's men.
"I'm in charge now." He pointed at Makarov. "There's room in my organization for whoever kills that pompous windbag."
A few of Makarov's men glanced at their boss, trying to figure out which way the wind was blowing.
"Are you kidding?" shouted Makarov. "You sicced the Chechens on us, tried to have us all killed. You think my men will trust you after that?"
"That wasn't personal," said Sharik. There was no remorse in his voice. "I let the two problems take care of each other; all my men have to do now is mop up. That's the kind of leadership those who join me can expect. You see, I take initiative." As he said that, he raised his pistol and shot at Makarov. The bullet made a whining sound as it ricocheted off the light barrier.
Sharik whistled. "I'll be damned." He cocked his head and stared at the foreigners with newfound interest. "You two, turn off your fancy American light-fence and I'll allow you to walk out of here."
The foreigners made no move to lower their shields.
"You have not proven yourself to be trustworthy," said the woman.
Sharik chuckled. "Suit yourselves." He waved to his men. "Take them."
Sharik's men had already dispersed throughout the warehouse. The defenders positioned themselves near the edges of the two light shields. The two groups sniped at one another, bullets whizzing across the warehouse.
Igor clutched his handgun in sweaty palms. A Hollywood action star would have taken charge, would have eliminated a half dozen opponents by himself. Igor thought he understood this sort of violence having seen it on badly dubbed videotapes, but real life was different. In real life he couldn't bring himself to engage. He huddled next to the foreigners and watched the events unfold around him.
Sharik ran along the far wall of the warehouse while his men laid cover fire. He got to the point where he had a clear shot, crouched and aimed.
The male arms dealer gasped and fell backward, a wet spot blossoming on his chest. The sphere rolled out of his hand and one of the light barriers flickered and went out. The woman screamed and dropped to her knees next to him, her barrier winking out of existence as well.
With their protection suddenly gone, the corner of the warehouse became a killing field. Sharik's men mowed down the defenders in a matter of seconds.
Igor crouched low, expecting a bullet to find him. He heard about people's lives flashing before their eyes in the final moments, but for him there was only terror and images of his family; how would they react when he didn't come home tonight? He imagined his parents arguing. Mom would want to file a missing persons report while Dad would say he was probably fine and they should wait until morning...
Makarov dove for the gadget dropped by the fallen foreigner. He grabbed hold of it but couldn’t bring the defensive shield back to life. In his hands it was only a dead chunk of metal.
The woman cradled her partner's lifeless body and her wail turned into a scream of rage. She let go of his corpse, got up, grasped her own sphere with both hands and concentrated on it.
An intense wall of light formed several meters out, encircling the foreigners, Igor, Makarov and Tolya, one of his men. It blocked the bullets but left the rest of Makarov's people exposed to enemy fire.
The woman ignored the cacophony of gunfire and the screams of the wounded as she went on staring at the sphere. Suddenly the light burst outward like a sun going nova and bathed the entire warehouse. Then, less than a second later, it disappeared.
The warehouse was completely silent. Once Igor's eyes recovered from the flash of light, he could see that everyone on the outside of the barrier, Sharik's people and Makarov's alike, were dead. Their bodies were crumpled on the floor with no outward signs of any damage.
Makarov stared at the scene of the carnage for several long seconds, then turned to the woman who still held the sphere in both hands. Her wide eyes seemed unfocused, large tears pooling in their corners.
Makarov placed the sphere he'd been holding on the ground, took a step toward her and punched her in the face.
The woman crumpled onto the concrete. The sphere fell from her hands and Makarov kicked it out of reach. She clutched at her nose and blood poured through her fingers.
Igor noticed that the blood was orange. The same color as the bloodstain that covered the chest of her partner.
"What the devil are you?" asked Makarov.
The woman moaned softly, but made no response.
Makarov grabbed her by the shoulders and lifted her up. Then he forced her hands away from her face and studied her up close.
"You're some kind of a space alien, aren't you?" He shook her. "Answer me, or I'll put a bullet through your head."
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely loud enough for Igor to hear. "We're from another world."
"Why are you here? What do you want with us?" Makarov asked.
"We told the truth. We want to trade for your weapons."
Makarov chuckled bitterly. "What do you want with guns, when you have... this." He nodded toward one of the spheres on the ground.
"We can't trade high technology on interdicted planets," she said. "Only mechanical weapons." She wiped the blood from her face with the sleeve of her jacket. "Our business model is like yours—outside the framework of our laws."
Makarov nodded, then called over his shoulder. "Guard her, Tolya. Igor, go find some rope and tie her up."
His remaining underling stepped up and trained his gun on the woman.
"We can still complete our transaction," she said. "You have the diamonds, and I can get you more."
"After all this, I'll need the guns and the diamonds," said Makarov. "Recruit new men, arm them. Besides, I have a feeling the CIA or some big corporation will pay me whatever I ask for you and your—what did you call it?—high technology. Enough to build an empire so strong no one will dare challenge me." He grinned savagely at Tolya. "Told you, stick with me and you'll make it big-time."
Igor thought it wasn't fair. The woman had saved their lives. He thought of the guns in the streets of his hometown, of the sort of violence a man like Makarov might unleash given the opportunity.
Makarov and Tolya were focused on the woman. They didn't see Igor raise his pistol. Even though his hands shook, it was impossible to miss at point-blank range. He put a bullet in the back of Makarov's head. Tolya began to turn, but he never had a chance: another pull of the trigger, and Igor and the woman remained the only ones alive in the building.
She trembled, no doubt expecting that the third bullet would be meant for her.
Igor stared at the carnage. "Tell me the truth, is it better...out there?" he asked, pointing upward with his gun.
She thought it over.
"No," she said, her voice small and resigned. "It is the same, everywhere."
Igor lowered his gun slowly.
"The weapons are yours," he said. "Get them out of here."
He understood that these guns would be used to kill, somewhere. He couldn't fix the whole universe. The only thing he could do, the only thing within his power, was to protect his tiny corner of it. Perhaps the heroes from Hollywood films would have found a better way, but Igor was no hero, and this wasn't a movie.
"Don't leave any behind, all right?"
Some of the tension slowly drained from the woman's face and she nodded.
Igor picked up the bag of diamonds, hefted it over his shoulder, and walked away without looking back.
Copyright © 2018 by Alex Shvartsman