Nine Layers of Sky
Table of Contents
To Charles North, forever
“Try, build a palace. Furnish it with marble, pictures, gold,
birds of paradise, hanging gardens . . . and enter it. Why,
perhaps you may never even have the desire to come out!
But . . . your palace is enclosed by a fence, and you’ll be
told: Everything is yours, delight in it! But only do not go
one step away from here! And believe me at that same
moment you’ll want to be rid of your paradise and step
over beyond the fence . . . all this magnificence, all this
luxury will even foment your suffering. It will become
offensive to you, precisely because of this splendour.”
Fyodor Dostoevsky,
The Brothers Karamazov.
Further praise for
Liz Williams
THE GHOST SISTER
“A fine example of modern science fiction . . . detailed, engrossing and real . . . The virtue of this novel is Williams’ ability to force the reader to confront fundamental questions about life, religion, technology, feminism, idealism, do-goodism, and free will.
The
Ghost Sister
shows how high the . . . science fiction ‘literary’ bar has been raised. . . . A very impressive effort, and an amazing feat as a first novel.”
—
Science Fiction Chronicle
“Williams addresses difficult moral and ethical questions in a compelling novel concerned with genetic engineering and a people’s struggle to transcend their limitations.”
—
Booklist
“Reminiscent of Ursula Le Guin’s
Left Hand of
Darkness
. . . This is the sort of SF one wishes there could be more of . . . a thought-provoking, lyrical read.”
—
Interzone
“When the time came to compile the shortlist for the Philip K. Dick Award for best original paperback, it was only right that
The Ghost Sister
was among the final six; a book that gives readers so much to think about should be rewarded. . . . Just keep your wits about you and your senses at their sharpest, because here, only the strong survive.”
—
SF Site
“Breathtaking in its elegance . . . confounds expectations while at the same time surpassing them.”
—Infinity Plus
“Outstanding novel! I couldn’t bear to put it down. I snarled at each interruption. Liz Williams has crafted a very believable world for her first novel, populated it with believable characters, and told a story that kept me turning pages all night.”
—Aphelion
“A brilliant novel. It does what the best genre novels should do. It poses questions about life and how to live it that have no easy answers, and never pretends to provide a single one. Williams is an author to watch, and I’ll not be surprised if I see this novel shortlisted for any number of awards.”
—Wavelengths
EMPIRE OF BONES
“Reading Liz William’s
Empire of Bones
is a total immersion in a marvelously realized future. Her insight into the culture of colonization, in which humans are the colonized, is both immediate and challenging.”
—Sheri S. Tepper
“Crafted and polished science fiction, with an involving cast of characters—easily strong enough never to be upstaged by the astonishing and ingenious plot, sets and technology.”
—Tanith Lee
“Williams has written an intelligent tale of caste conflicts and communication, without preaching or using expository messages. She simply lets
Empire of Bones
tell its own intriguing story.”
—Kansas City Star
“[A] thoughtful and elegantly written story of self-discovery amid the ruins of social and environmental decay. Set in a near-future India, this tale . . . offers an intriguing glimpse into an important culture.”
—Library Journal
“Liz Williams, who debuted just last year with
The
Ghost Sister,
now proves with her second book that she possesses enough talent and ambition to leap to the forefront of the next generation of SF writers. . . . Williams brings firsthand experience of India to the page, and the result is a fresh, believable and exotic setting and characters, thickly described and full of import.…She will soon rank as one of the brightest new stars in the 21st-century SF firmament.”
“Liz Williams…gives her best in
Empire of Bones
— and her best is pretty darned good. . . . Fascinating . . . well-crafted . . . Williams has a wonderful knack for keeping all the balls in the air and the pages turning. As in her first novel,
The Ghost Sister
(also highly recommended), Williams explores the obligations and dangers of great power; but here she also grapples with the necessity for freedom and its cost.”
—Contra Costa Times
“It would not surprise me were
Empire of Bones
to be hailed as an important work of feminist sf. It certainly should be hailed, and I recommend it very highly as one of the most interesting works of sf I have read in quite a while.”
—New York Review of Science Fiction
“A fast-paced science fiction thriller that shows what could happen when First Contact occurs. The homeworld of Rasasatra’s politics, culture and social structure is crafted in such intricate detail it feels as if Liz Williams is a native social anthropologist. Yet the talented writer never slows down the action while providing characters, both human and alien, that are believable and understandable inside the strong plot. . . . A great novel.”
—AllSciFi
THE POISON MASTER
“The book’s various cultures and characters are fascinating, but what makes this story unusual is its historical breadth and its consideration of the spiritual and supernatural. Part alien adventure and part existential exploration, this top-notch tale establishes Williams as an author to watch.”
—Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“The chances Williams has taken here and her confident handling of a wide range of material promises much for her future novels [and] should assist her in climbing up the ladder to bestsellerdom.”
—BookPage
“The cosmos according to Liz Williams in her third novel is a strange place that defies our conception of modern physics and cosmology. . . . Williams’ Latent Emanation and its sister worlds are bold, exotic backdrops against which colorful characters can undergo thrilling adventures with a philosophical subtext. . . . Williams joins A. A. Attanasio and China Miéville as one of the best contemporary practitioners of a kind of imaginative literature that fuses the intellect of SF with the heart of fantasy.”
“Williams handles her complex story with masterful skill.
The
Poison
Master
is both big in scope and tensely claustrophobic.”
—Talebones
Acknowledgments
I should like to thank the members of the Montpelier writing group, my agent Shawna McCarthy, and my editor Anne Groell for their invaluable help in knocking this book into shape.
I also wish to thank everyone in Central Asia for looking after us with such impeccable guerrilla hospitality over the years, particularly:
in Almaty, Sholpan Bekmagambetova and family and Vasily of café fame
in Kyrgyzia, Madam Rosa Utabaeva, Kyrgyz ambassador to London
in Uzbekistan, Viktor and Kate
I should like to thank Roger McMahon, international man of mystery, for making it all possible in the first place.
And finally, let’s hear it for the Britpack, and also particularly for Chris Priest, Tanith Lee, Jay Caselberg, and the Storyvillains . . .
Part One
One
KAZAKHSTAN/UZBEKISTAN BORDER, 21ST CENTURY
They had reached the border early that morning, leapfrogging the grim skein of industrial towns that strung from Almaty to Chimkent. The early part of the journey now seemed remote: a grimy memory that made Elena’s skin crawl with remembered pollution. It had taken almost four hours to reach the Uzbek border, crawling all the way, with the powerful wipers of the Sherpa grinding the snow into a grey slush that accumulated at the bottom of the windscreen, periodically slewing down the hood and turning to packed ice beneath the wheels.
Atyrom’s sister, Gulnara, had gone to sleep on the backseat. Atyrom drove without speaking, occasionally groping on the dashboard for cigarettes. He smoked Marlboros, which Elena could not afford. Acrid smoke filled the van like the ghost of an American dream.
He offered Elena one, but pride made her say, “Thanks, I’ll stick to the Polyot.” She reached for her packet of rougher local cigarettes and lit up. Atyrom said nothing, but the lack of conversation was compulsory, since he insisted on playing Uzbek rock at a level that could have woken the dead. It veered from maudlin ballads to aggressive nationalistic anthems that made Atyrom pound the steering column in erratic accompaniment.
Bleary with lack of sleep, Elena stared out across the pale and endless expanse of the steppe. In summer, the land was constantly changing under the light: alternately subtle and harsh, depending on the time of day. Sometimes in summer, she and her sister would borrow her cousin’s car and drive out to Lake Kapchugai, to sit by the quiet water and watch the shadows lengthen across the steppe, the afternoon sun striping the land with colors that had not changed since prehistoric times: ochre and mauve and red. Now, in late February, the steppe remained featureless beneath the snow; they could have been driving over the moon. Shortly before seven in the morning, they reached the border and the queue of traffic.
It was still snowing, and Elena could not see very far ahead. The rear lights of the truck in front of them glowed crimson, then died as the truck stopped. Atyrom gave a snort of irritation and switched off the engine. There was a sudden, shattering silence.
“How long do you think we’ll be here?” Elena asked. Atyrom glanced at her with manifest contempt.
“How should I know?”
“You’ve done the trip before,” Elena said reasonably.
“It’s different every time,” Atyrom answered, dismissing the issue. He settled back against the seat rest and closed his eyes. Elena decided not to argue. Atyrom was doing her a favor, after all. If it had not been for his offer, she would have had to take the train down to Tashkent, lugging the heavy bag of black-market clothes with her.
She turned to look at her friend. Gulnara was still sleeping, curled on the backseat with her face squashed uncomfortably against the doorframe. Elena watched her for a moment before fishing in the glove compartment for diversion. There was nothing but a week-old copy of
Karavan.
Gloomily, she perused the
For Sale
advertisements and the lonely hearts, but there was nothing of interest to buy and she was not interested in romance with anyone. Not after Yuri. The cosmodrome seemed suddenly very far away: another Elena, another life entirely.
It was growing cold in the cabin of the van. It had been fifteen below when they left Chimkent. She chafed her hands in the thick leather gloves and opened the door of the Sherpa. Atyrom muttered a brief protest as she stepped down. The cold hit her like a hammer, slamming its way into her lungs. Her eyes prickled and her cheeks started to burn. Squinting, Elena wound her scarf more securely around her face and trudged slowly up the line.
After a seemingly unending procession of trucks and vans, she turned the corner and saw the ramshackle customs post ahead. Blue lights sparkled eerily through the falling snow, and unease settled in an icy lump in Elena’s throat. She walked up the line toward a little knot of people who were talking to someone in a Lada through the open door of the car. Elena made her way to the edge of the gathering. These were presumably the customs officials, but as everyone was bundled up under several layers of clothing, it was difficult to tell. One man had the insignia of the Kazakhstan
militzia.
What were the police doing here? A pink-nosed face peered at her like a rabbit from a burrow. Elena glanced past him, to where the driver of the vehicle sat in silence.
“Won’t he get cold like that?” Elena asked inanely. The customs officer’s face twitched with something that could have been a smile.
“He’s not likely to get any colder.” And then Elena realized that the man was dead. He seemed to stare at her. There was a hazy bloom across his eyes, like dark frost. It made her shiver even more than the cold.
“Oh, my God,” she said, stepping back and slipping a little on the icy surface of the road.
“Not the only one,” the customs officer said with a kind of gloomy satisfaction. He pointed to the customs post, where figures were loading stretchers into an ambulance. “Frozen stiff. Happens a lot this time of year.”
“Look,” Elena said. “I don’t want to sound callous, but how long is this going to take?” She had no intention of emulating the driver of the Lada.
The customs officer shrugged. “We’re moving as fast as we can, but the road’s blocked just beyond the customs. They’re trying to clear it now. I suggest you go back to your vehicle.”
Elena rubbed her face indecisively, but there was nothing that could be done now for the driver, and the ambulance was there, anyway. Her cheeks felt red and raw, and her lips were already chapped. Ice crackled in her hair; she could see a frosty blonde fringe just above her eyes.
“All right,” she said at last, and walked back along the line. She did not dare look through the icy windscreens of the other cars; she was afraid of what she might see. Atyrom stared at her as she climbed back into the Sherpa.
“Where have you been?”
Tersely, Elena explained, haunted by the memory of the frozen man’s silent face and strange dead gaze.
“Well, too bad, but never mind,” Atyrom said, with something that almost approached cheerfulness. “As long as it’s not us, eh?”
Elena couldn’t help agreeing with the general sentiment, but not with the way in which it was expressed. She mumbled something. Through the frosty windscreen, she could see the lights of the ambulance as it came back down the road. Presently, it was level with the truck in front and it was at this point that the truck driver chose to open his door and leap out. The ambulance veered clear of the door as the driver slammed on the brakes. The wheels of the ambulance spun, hammering it against the door of the Sherpa. There was a thunderous
bang.
The van shook and rattled, and Atyrom was flung sideways across Elena’s lap. Gulnara screamed. Atyrom shouted with fury. Scrambling up, he wrestled with the door, punching and kicking until the damaged lock gave way and the door shot open.
Atyrom fell out of the van, still shouting. Elena hastily levered herself into the driver’s seat and followed. The ambulance was trundling slowly down the road, the azure lights wobbling on top. Atyrom stumbled after it, bawling insults and curses.
“Are you drunk, asshole? Look what you’ve done to my van!”
As quickly as she could, Elena caught up with him. Atyrom was panting with rage. He shook off Elena’s restraining hand and bounded through the snow, taking long, floundering leaps like a hunting dog. Elena struggled after him. Catching up with the ambulance, Atyrom pulled open the door and dragged the driver out. Both men fell heavily into the snow.
“Hey!” Elena shouted. “Atyrom, stop! It was an accident. Leave him alone!”
Atyrom was not listening. He hauled the ambulance driver to his feet and shoved him against the side of the nearest vehicle. All down the line, men were coming out of their cars to join in the argument, and, to her dismay, Elena saw the dark-coated figure of the
militzia
man, heading purposefully toward them from the direction of the customs post.
“Atyrom, for God’s sake!” she called. “You’ll get us arrested.”
Atyrom was shaking the driver, pushing him against the tarpaulin side of the truck.
“What about my
van,
you fucking bastard?”
Something fell out of the driver’s pocket: something long and bright that Elena could not see clearly. Atyrom stared down at it for a startled moment, then gave a roar of rage and head-butted the driver. A thin spray of blood spattered out across the snow; the driver emitted a wail of pain.
“Grave robber!” Atyrom shouted.
Elena reached the irate Uzbek and hauled him back by the arms. The ambulance driver slumped back against the side of the truck as the policeman panted up. Elena caught a glimpse of a young, bony face beneath the
militzia
hat: one of those Ukrainian countenances, with cold eyes set too far apart. She pulled Atyrom aside as the policeman swung the butt of an ancient Kalashnikov at the Uzbek’s head.
“Don’t touch me!” Atyrom shouted, ducking. “Don’t you
fucking
touch me! Look! Look!”
Wrestling out of Elena’s restraining grip, he pounced into the snow and thrust out a handful of dirty, glittering slush. The policeman stared.
“Look what this bastard’s stolen! Watches! Money!
Teeth!
”
Appalled, Elena saw that Atyrom was right. A single golden tooth rested in the snow in his gloved palm, its root still stained pink.
“Stealing out of the mouths of the dead!” Atyrom roared.
The ambulance driver, wiping blood from his face with his sleeve, began to protest, but the policeman snarled, “Shut up!”
He swung the gun again. Elena reflexively ducked out of the way, but there was a hard, dull crack as the butt of the gun connected with the side of the driver’s head. The ambulance driver dropped as if poleaxed, and lay still. The policeman crouched in the snow, the pale eyes glaring up at Atyrom.
“Well, what do you say, then?” he remarked quite calmly. “Half for you, half for me?”
Atyrom, evidently mollified, shrugged. “
Ladna.
Why not?”
Elena watched in horrified silence as the policeman began to pick through the driver’s pockets and placed a motley collection of objects into Atyrom’s waiting hands.
“What about him?” she said angrily, pointing to the driver, but no one seemed to hear. Elena knelt down in the snow and examined the man’s head. The blood was already congealing, glazing like red frost across the driver’s skin. Was he dead? Elena groped inside the man’s sleeve. The skin felt cold and clammy. She could not feel a pulse. There was a shout from somewhere up the front of the line.
“Hey! We’re moving!”
Atyrom hauled himself to his feet and began to hurry back in the direction of the Sherpa.
“Well, are you coming or what?” he said over his shoulder.
Elena pointed down at the ambulance driver. “What about him?”
“Leave him,” the policeman said. He spat into the snow. “Filth.”
“No! We can’t just leave him,” Elena said. “I think he’s dead. And if he isn’t, he soon will be in this temperature. And what about the ambulance?”
Atyrom looked momentarily puzzled. “So? If he’s dead, there’s nothing we can do about it. Are you coming or not? If not, I’ll leave you behind.”
Elena, rehearsing a dozen arguments, got to her feet, but as she rose she noticed something embedded in the snow, not far from the fallen driver. She bent to look more closely, and saw a small black sphere. Reaching down, she plucked it out of its icy bed. The sphere was around the size of a golf ball and looked as frail as a sugar shell, yet it was unaccountably heavy. Its matte surface seemed to swallow light. It must have fallen from the ambulance driver’s pockets, along with the rest of his loot.
She remembered the dead man in the car at the head of the line: that dark, impenetrable gaze. Had the driver stolen it from that man, or from someone else? There was no way now of finding out.
Bewildered, Elena put the thing in her pocket. It weighed down her coat; she could feel it dragging at the material as she hurried back to the Sherpa, but by the time she reached the vehicle she had forgotten all about it. With the light of battle in her eyes, she climbed back into the damaged van and began to tell Atyrom precisely what she thought of him.
The argument, with Gulnara echoing Elena’s every pronouncement, lasted all the way down the long road to Tashkent.