Виноградов Z Павел
The Fourth Code

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  Table of Contents
  The Fourth Code
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  Synopsis (spoilers)
  Annotation
  A cosmic catastrophe has created a tunnel in time and space, linking civilizations. Through it, the chosen few enter other worlds, transforming them. But the chosen one renounces his destiny. What prompted him to do so? Who is he, Evgeny Kromlekh? A scholarly linguist, an ancient Mayan emperor, a time-bending magician, or an alien being in human form? And who is really writing the Fourth Codex?
  
   • The Fourth Code
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   ◦ Synopsis (spoilers)
  
  The Fourth Code
  
  1
  
   Prologue
  
  The solar system, 65 million years ago
  A monster, like a shaggy serpent engulfed in flames, appeared in the sky of a small, inhabited planet—the fourth from the Sun. In reality, it was a mountain-sized rock core, covered in a thick layer of ice, followed by a gigantic cloud of frozen gases and dust, and behind it all, a glowing, fluffy tail. In short, it was a comet.
  When it came into contact with the planet's electromagnetic field, the latter attempted to push back the aggressor, but its strength was only enough to shatter it. One cosmic boulder slipped from the planet's gravitational grasp and, changing trajectory, flew on—its target was elsewhere in the solar system. The second, already in the planet's atmosphere, disintegrated into fragments, swarming into the southern hemisphere.
  It was like a shotgun blast at point-blank range. It slowed the planet's orbit, stripping away most of its atmosphere. All life on the surface suffocated almost immediately. The ocean in the northern hemisphere erupted into space in colossal geysers, and what remained quickly froze. As did all other bodies of water.
  This is how this world was killed and flayed...
  But the catastrophe also had consequences in another, invisible world of cosmic energies.
  
   Part One
   The Way of the Warrior
  
  Ilona Maksimovna Linkova-Delgado. Mexico. Chichen Itza. December 20, 2028
  Ilona flew through flooded stone corridors. Her journey was precisely that: flight. Or, at least, floating in zero gravity. She'd never experienced zero gravity, but she assumed that's what it felt like to experience the absence of any pressure.
  The movements were performed by a single will, as if the overbearing force of gravity had vanished. The brain commanded the hand to rise—and there it was, suspended in the air without exerting the slightest effort.
  Ilona Maximovna seemed to have shaved at least thirty years off her age. But in the air, her 72 years were clearly present. With a fleeting tinge of irritation, she recalled how she had tried to persuade the expedition leader to let her scuba dive. At first, he wouldn't listen, but Ilona was a persistent one. True, she had to sign a paper in Spanish first, accepting full responsibility. They remembered a tragic incident that had happened many years earlier to another elderly Russian scientist...
  If Antonio had lived, she wouldn't have had to endure such humiliation—no one doubted he would have been the first to do it. But now she herself had to swim half a kilometer underground through stalactite-covered corridors. For Tony. For...
  The beams of the two flashlights on her helmet picked out a rocky outcrop covered in algae, a strange whitish cave fish, or pottery shards on a mound of sedimentary rock. There was plenty of such treasure here—when the millennia-old layers of silt had finally been sucked out of the bottom of the Sacred Cenote, all sorts of things had been found there... But nothing could be taken here, only examined and described. So the professor merely glanced at the broken sacrificial jar—she had a far more pressing goal at the moment.
  She turned to the volunteer diver swimming behind her, pulling the guide rope. She caught herself expecting to see Antonio instead—she was much better at scuba diving than he was and usually led the dives. However, the thought of her husband, who had died two years ago, was fleeting again. Unlike thoughts of another man. They were suppressed and hidden, but Ilona was constantly aware of their presence and couldn't, and probably didn't want to, get rid of them.
  Seeing the boss looking at him, the volunteer showed her a ring of his fingers—everything was OK. She pointed to the right—that was where the recently discovered passage to the caves under the silt should be.
  Yes, there it was—a narrow gap in the shimmering water. When the silt was removed, it turned out the passage had been sealed shut by the ancient Mayans. It had been opened just the other day. Ilona wasn't claustrophobic, but as she squeezed through, trying not to knock her oxygen tank off the rocky outcroppings, she felt uneasy. The vaulted ceiling overhanging her, and she knew that above lay a thick layer of limestone, and beyond that, a thick blanket of water stretched upward.
  “Like being thrown into a coffin alive...” flashed a panicked thought.
  "Stop, stop, it will soon be over. Soon I will be where no one has been for fifteen centuries."
  "Except maybe..."
  And then panic overtook her. The light from the flashlights, flickering and pitiful in the suddenly thickening darkness, revealed the jagged grin of a greenish skull...
  The horror didn't last long, though—she'd seen plenty of that sort of thing. It was just unexpected, the skull so perfectly preserved, the angle and lighting giving it an eerie hue... But it was just the skull of some poor wretch, dumped here centuries ago as a sacrifice to Chac, the god of rain and corn.
  Ilona, with some difficulty but with precision (she still hadn't lost her skills), slowed down and carefully examined the bone vessel that had once held someone's personality. Yes, an Indian... And the skull was intact. And the one she'd been afraid to see, but secretly longed to see, should have had a large dent in the forehead from an old injury.
  "Ilona, stop it," she scolded herself. "He's not here. He wouldn't have found this passage. Back then, all this was under a thick layer of silt. Lots and lots of heavy silt..."
  Yes, now she was beyond the Sacred Cenote of Chichen Itza. These caves could be connected by passages to others, and those to still others. And so it was beneath the entire northern Yucatan Peninsula, pitted from within like a giant wheel of cheese by mice. Flooded caves emerged as cenotes, wells from which the Mayans had long drawn water. And which they worshiped. Which is not surprising—without underground water, their fantastical jungle cities would not have risen.
  The EVK understood this half a century ago, when almost no one considered the significance of this vast underground hydrosystem. In fact, it was a sacred river, playing the same role for the Mayan civilization as the Nile did for the Egyptians. And just as the earthly Nile was a reflection of the astral Nile for the Egyptians, so the Yucatan underground was for the Maya a reverse reality, a manifestation of Xibalba, the kingdom of the dead. And, of course, an entrance to it.
  “There was nothing yet connected, nothing could make a noise, there was nothing that could move, or tremble, or make noise in the sky.
  There was nothing that existed, that could have existence; there was only cold water, a calm sea, lonely and quiet. Nothing existed.
  In the darkness, in the night, there was only stillness, only silence."
  Ilona didn't know whether she was reproducing these lines of K'iche' in her mind, or whether they were emanating from the silvery walls in the lantern light, seeming like portals into the unknown. It no longer mattered. She had crossed the line separating the human world from the spirit world. Everything around her announced it. The view revealed by the lantern beams was surreal. Some incredible chemical reaction, or perhaps the influence of otherworldly forces in time immemorial, had transformed the stalactites here into something resembling stone bells. They appeared everywhere in her field of vision—large and small, tiny and gigantic, nested within one another, hanging like monstrously beautiful garlands. It was a kind of aesthetic madness, a moment of horror and rapture on the border between the utterly beautiful and the inexpressibly nightmarish.
  Bubbles of exhaust air accumulated under the ceiling and scattered across it like mercury, in shiny balls, adding a fantastical quality to the atmosphere.
  “The other side of the world,” flashed through Ilona’s mind.
  The entrance hall of Xibalba, the "Cold Staircase," leads into a world of alien cosmic forces, into boundless, icy spaces where the gods dance eternally with the stars...
  The passages grew narrower, almost impassable in places. Several times, Ilona suppressed the internal scream that she couldn't go any further, that she would remain here forever, stuck between the rocks, turning into one of the many human skeletons here. But a volunteer swam behind her, and with him—she hoped—was a spool of rope that would lead them out of this insane place if anything happened.
  However, the scientist's sober mind and the archaeologist's excitement gradually overcame his irrational fears. Unless they had taken a wrong turn, they should already be near the Great Pyramid of Kukulkan. About twelve years ago, a tomograph had confirmed a long-held suspicion: beneath the great step pyramid known to the world, another, much smaller and older one, lay hidden. In fact, a third—the second inner pyramid—was built above it. In other words, the entire pyramid was a kind of "matryoshka doll." And beneath it, under twenty meters of limestone, lay an underground lake, connected by a cave system to the Sacred Cenote.
  A little later, a sealed passage from above to the inner pyramid was discovered, but it was never opened for fear of causing irreparable damage to the monument. But if you "dive" underneath... People in the early seventh century CE could not have been unaware of the lake when they built the first pyramid over it. And perhaps it had an outlet—a kind of twin of the Sacred Cenote. If so, it would seem likely that the first pyramid was built directly over this well—a common practice among the Mayans. Kukulkan is generally associated with water and the god Chac. In short, it's possible that the inner pyramid can be accessed through the well.
  Tony—Don Antonio Delgado, who had proven the existence of a network of caves from the Sacred Cenote to the underground lake—dreamed of being the first to enter. Of course, he did so with his Russian wife, a student of the great EVK, Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh, who had deciphered Mayan writing and thereby become a national hero in Mexico and other Mesoamerican states. Ilona, too, was eager to penetrate the inner pyramid—but not solely out of a desire for scientific discovery...
  Don Antonio died of cancer in a Mexico City hospital. And she was already so close to her goal...
  Of course, her hopes were illusory—she knew it intellectually. There was no chance of solving a riddle in the watery labyrinths that was not fourteen centuries old, but merely thirty-eight years old. But something inexpressible, something shamelessly illogical, drove her, so level-headed, even a little dry, forward along the terrifying paths of Xibalba.
  She never even considered that her husband's calculations might be wrong and there might be no underground exit to the pyramid. Or that they might be carried off into other caves, unknown to anyone yet. So, they'd return by rope—there was enough air for the return trip. But that would be so sad...
  Forward!
  The passage suddenly opened, the constricting walls vanished. All around, above and below, the lanterns illuminated only the rippling water, awakening from a thousand-year slumber, disturbed by the uninvited guests. It was as if the swimmers had escaped the confines of their mother's womb—not into bright light, but into impenetrable darkness. Ilona recalled that, according to Mayan belief, all people emerged from a cave, which symbolized the birth canal. And the Mayans called the waters of cenotes "virgin."
  "Only the Creator and the Maker, Tepeu and Kukumatz, the Great Mother and the Great Father, were in the endless waters. Yes, they were there, hidden beneath green and blue feathers, and that is why they were called Kukumatz.
  This is how the sky existed, and there was the Heart of Heaven - this is the name of God and this is how He was called.
  Then His Word came. It came to Tepeu and Kukumatz, who were gathered together in the darkness, in the night, and Tepeu and Kukumatz spoke with It. And so they spoke, discussing and consulting; they agreed with one another, they united their words and their thoughts.
  And while they were thinking, it became clear to them that at the coming of dawn a man must also appear."
  Rhythmic phrases from the Mayan creation epic, the Popol Vuh, flashed and shimmered in the light of the lanterns around her. Ilona entered the pristine waters and was born again.
  For a moment she lost her bearings, but then she pulled herself together. The world could be born now in this strange place, but she herself could die if she lost her grasp of the laws of space.
  She pointed upward at her partner—they needed to find a way out. The guy gave the OK sign again. The rope was still trailing behind him.
  Ilona began the climb cautiously. The surface of the underground lake could be far away, so she had to be careful of the caisson.
  In the murky, sediment-laden waters, even the light from the flashlights was of little help. The ascent seemed to go on forever. She began to doubt she was actually rising—perhaps, on the contrary, she was slipping and slipping downwards, into the bottomless abyss. At some point, her ears began to pop, and she automatically performed the required procedure: she pressed the mask to her nose and swallowed. Her ears relaxed. And then her head emerged above the surface of the lake.
  Ilona picked up the flashlight and began to carefully examine the cave ceiling. It seemed... yes, there it was, the cenote's exit—a black spot among the ghostly stalactites. Thank God they hadn't walled it up when the temple was built. Hopefully, it leads to the inner pyramid. But we still have to get there.
  Although, in reality, this expedition was only meant for reconnaissance. No one thought Ilona intended to climb up to the pyramid herself. However, she was determined to do just that.
  The boy, whose head had just broken the surface, also began shining his flashlight, but along the walls—searching for a rock to hook the rope onto. Ilona followed the darting circle of light.
  "Stop! What's that?" she suddenly cried out.
  The voice in the darkness sounded muffled and eerie, but the mystical experiences no longer affected the venerable scientist. She began shining her light in the same direction where something resembling... had just flashed.
  Yes, that's right - a series of roughly hewn steps could be discerned from the water's edge in the sloping limestone walls.
  It seemed like a miracle, but there was no time to ponder it. Perhaps the steps had been used in ancient times for sacred rites. Or to draw water. Who knows what for...
  She climbed out of the water onto a wide, flat ledge, to which the boy had already attached a rope. The steps led from there, their row lost in the darkness.
  “I’m going up,” Ilona declared decisively and coldly, as best she could.
  The guy shook his head and muttered something in protest in Spanish. But it was impossible to argue with the professor's mistress. She freed herself from her tanks and mask, took off her fins, leaving her boots on, adjusted her helmet and headlamps, and began her ascent.
  Shocked by the madness of the senior, the boy remained to cover the rear.
  She didn't think about the mortal danger she was in, or that at her age she shouldn't be climbing those slippery, mossy steps. None of that mattered—she was going where she needed to go; that was her purpose now.
  The climb, however, turned out to be surprisingly easy. The steps were carefully hewn—the staircase cut deep into the limestone. Recalling the rock-climbing skills she'd acquired in her youth and trying to forget about her osteochondrosis and arthrosis, Ilona pressed herself against the wall with all her might, often using her arms to help herself, and sometimes clinging to tree roots that had broken through the rock, reaching for the underground water.
  "There was nothing that existed that could have existence..."
  There was darkness above and below, pierced only by the lantern light. Ilona had no idea how much longer she had to go. She couldn't see where she'd come from or where she was heading. Perhaps she'd be climbing forever, having carelessly fallen into a Mayan hell. For some reason, the prospect didn't particularly frighten her.
  But then the lanterns revealed something new ahead—a narrow passageway with steps leading down. And it wasn't a well opening—it was clearly something man-made. The steps rose steeply upward, into impenetrable darkness.
  Ilona didn't hesitate for a moment. "Cold stairs," she thought, and squeezed into the passage.
  A person larger than her simply couldn't have fit through here. It was essentially a long stone pipe. Moreover, it was very winding—turns followed one another.
  "Like a snake," Ilona thought, and immediately realized that it was indeed so. The Mayans built similar serpentine passages in tombs to communicate with the deceased. And here, the pipe was obviously intended to allow the deceased to freely communicate from their sarcophagus with the underworld.
  So she moved in the belly of the serpent to the tomb.
  Actually, here she is.
  With another hard shove, nearly tearing her wetsuit on the wall ledge, Ilona suddenly felt the room expand. She took one of the flashlights from her helmet and shone it in all directions. The terrifying visage of a mad demon grinned right at her.
  The jaguar god... And here are Bolon-ti-ku—the nine gods of Xibalba. Bolon Yokte—the god of the planet Mars, the "bringer of misfortune," the destroyer of the established order. Of course, there's the Feathered Serpent Kukulkan—where would we be without him? Beautifully executed bas-reliefs. And many inscriptions; in the dark, it's difficult to decipher the meaning of the hieroglyphs; that's later...
  But where is the sarcophagus?
  She once again scanned the room with the flashlight. It turned out to be quite large—at least five or six meters long and three or four meters wide, with a characteristic Mayan vaulted ceiling. Everything was constructed of enormous stone blocks. On the floor were shards, even, it seemed, intact vessels. Fragments of statues. The alabaster face of a young man looked mournfully at Ilona.
  "Interesting," she thought. "An obvious substitute for human sacrifice."
  And here is the master of the crypt himself, the halach-vinik—the Great Man. The king of the city, or rather, the one we designate by that word—for lack of a better word.
  And he is not in a sarcophagus.
  The skeleton lay on a half-rotted mat thrown directly onto the stone floor, which the archaeologist's experienced eye recognized as the skin of a jaguar. The bones, red from the ritual cinnabar with which the body was covered, were strewn with thousands of greenish beads of jade, a metal prized by the Mayans above gold. These were from the necklaces and bracelets that had adorned the corpse. Other items—plates, pendants... So much of it, it would have taken months just to describe and draw up a burial plan...
  A discovery of terrifying power, equal to the burial in the Temple of Palenque. But for some reason, the professor felt no elation—only a vague sense of unease and a strange sorrow...
  The flashlight beam shone directly on the buried man's greed mask. Ilona stared, disbelieving, at the green, reptilian face. It wasn't the mask—she'd seen similar ones before. It was the face itself...
  Sternly drawn eyebrows under a high forehead, deep-set huge eyes, a hard line of the mouth, a nose that is prominent, but does not extend onto the forehead, as in many Mayan images...
  "This is it!.."
  "No, that's nonsense," she breathed out.
  There was no way this could be true. She was simply succumbing to pareidolia, like those lunatics who see a face on Mars. But she saw in the death mask of a Mayan ruler the face she wanted to see more than anything else.
  Yes, the Mayans gave such masks a portrait-like likeness of the deceased, and they did it magnificently. But this... Nonsense, just a play of light and shadow.
  And then Professor Linkova-Delgado committed a crime—against the science of archaeology and the laws of the United Mexican States. She did it impulsively, without even thinking about what she was doing—she simply couldn't help herself. Gripping the flashlight between her teeth, she carefully, with both hands, lifted the mask.
  A soft, croaking sound erupted. Ilona heard it from the side, but it was her own. It was a suppressed cry of terror.
  On the left side of the enormous frontal bone, there had been a healed depressed fracture during life. Ilona could imagine perfectly well what it would look like on a living head—after all, she had seen it on a living head...
  
   Zhenya Kromlekh. USSR. Leningrad. August 1937
  ...The separated stone brother of the killer of the fourth planet from the Sun flew on and encountered the rounded surface of another planet, the third from the Sun. It was larger and also bubbling with life...
  - Your dad is an enemy of the people! Enemy of the people! Enemy of the people!
  Seven-year-old Zhenya's eyes were filled with tears—the face of Kolya, the neighbor boy, who was angrily yelling at him, was a disturbing, twitching blur. But then, after the insult, rage followed. No one should attack Dad! Even though he was taken away by strangers in the night, his mother has been crying constantly ever since, often leaving him and his four brothers with a nanny while she goes away for long periods.
  Kolka was a year older and much larger, but Zhenya, growling, lunged at him and knocked him down onto the dirty asphalt of the St. Petersburg courtyard. The boys rolled all over him like cats in a fight.
  "Daddy's not an enemy, not an enemy, not an enemy!" Zhenya shouted, furiously pumping his fists.
  He already had a premonition of victory when Kolka, lying beneath him and screaming at the top of his lungs, felt for a stone and hit Zhenya hard in the forehead...
  ...The space boulder, without thinking, smashed headlong into the atmosphere of the planet it encountered. It was incapable of reasoning, nor of foreseeing the consequences. Specifically, its own disappearance. For in the atmosphere, it ceased to exist as a whole, shattering into thousands of fragments. These fragments, however, struck the planet with terrible force. The bulk of them fell in the area of a peninsula jutting out into a shallow bay of a warm sea. The alien was no longer as dangerous as a whole comet, but it had wrought considerable harm.
  Flash and explosion.
  ...Zhenka ceased to be Zhenka. Or even Evgeny Kromlekh, the talented but odd son of intelligent St. Petersburg parents. Multicolored waves crashed down on him with wild speed. They swirled into giant rainbow spirals, transforming into clumps of matter that immediately disintegrated into atoms and reassembled into pulsating galaxies, spreading new waves of all-destroying light across the universe.
  Incredible astral currents rushed across the universe, overlapping, twisting, bending, and tangling. Time and space acquired new, bizarre configurations.
  Flash and explosion.
  ...The skies grew unbearably bright. The eerie howl was cut short by a deafening explosion. The impact of the main fragment splashed the sea and pressed part of the planet's crust into its depths. Now, for the rest of its existence, a great circular crater will occupy this spot.
  A giant cloud of water vaporized along with its inhabitants and rock crushed into powder rose into the air. There, it became a sulfur cloud that spread throughout the atmosphere.
  A rain of hot particles of earth began to fall from the skies. Terrible fires erupted. A scorching storm raged for days. Numerous volcanoes also awoke. Liquid flames carved winding passages around the gaping wound of a huge crater, and fiery vents erupted through the planet's skin, spewing more tons of sun-blotting soot into its atmosphere.
  The light faded, darkness and cold set in. A long winter had killed most living creatures, leaving those who remained to eke out a miserable existence. But gradually the light returned, and life began anew.
  And in another world—closely connected to the physical world, but invisible to most of its inhabitants—the impact caused something more global than the extinction of the dinosaurs. From then on, an energy tunnel extended from the depths of the peninsula into the vastness of space.
  It took a long, long time, through much suffering and death, for the status quo of life to be restored, until it entered a new phase. But the planet will never be the same again.
  ...Eugene Kromlekh never recovered, though he escaped blindness and dementia. But it wasn't just the hollow on the left side of his forehead that reminded him of the blow...
  ...The volcanoes died down, the lava cooled, and a bizarre network of underground passages emerged beneath the peninsula, gradually filling with water, emerging as cenotes. This is how the land was found by the people who arrived here fifteen thousand years ago, the people who would later create great civilizations.
  And through the invisible rainbow tunnel with an entrance into the watery dungeons, various creatures penetrated.
  The local people worshiped Chak, the god of water and corn; Kukulkan, the Feathered Serpent, who, together with the god Hurakan, created the world; and his brother, the nameless Lord with the flayed skin, lord of life and death; and Bolon Yokte, the god of great calamities and the planet, known to other peoples as Mars...
  - Zhenya, what are you writing there?
  - It's nothing, Mom, I'm just writing.
  — What strange words... "Kukulkan" "Chicheni... itza" "Bolonyokte". What does it mean?
  - I don't know.
  - Stop writing this nonsense right now!
  - Okay, mom.
  - What are you drawing now?
  - Nothing, I'm just drawing.
  - What strange signs...
   2
  
  Ilona Maksimovna Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Moscow. April 17, 2029
  "What strange signs!"
  Ilona Maksimovna angrily threw the sheet of paper with the traced inscriptions from the tomb of the Inner Pyramid of the Temple of Kukulkan, which she had discovered, onto her desk in the institute office.
  "This is nonsense, honestly!" she thought irritably, furiously vaping the vape she'd switched to a couple of years ago, realizing that her beloved Camel would eventually kill her.
  No, some of the inscriptions were quite legible. Yes, this was the tomb of the king of Chichen Itza, who ruled in the early seventh century. And his name was... Kukulkan.
  Of course, it was a Mayan ruler, and no one else. The mystical terror Ilona experienced in the tomb beneath the pyramid had long since faded. Over time, the mask itself became less frighteningly reminiscent of the familiar face. In fact, it was very similar, but coincidences happen all sorts of ways... And the dent in the skull was certainly the result of some ancient skirmish—the deceased lived in a dangerous time, when even rulers were not immune to a club strike.
  What other options were there? That a world-renowned linguist, historian, and archaeologist secretly enters an ancient pyramid, throws out the king's bones, dons his attire, lies down in his place, and dies? Total nonsense! And the bones are radiocarbon-dated to around 610 AD. And there were no other plausible options. Occam's razor—that's it.
  Of course, we could do a genetic analysis—she might have DNA for comparison... But no, she's not that crazy yet. Period!
  So, could this really be the legendary Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl, called by the Mayans after the serpent god Kukulkan, an exile from Tolla, founder of the later Mayan cities? No, of course, he lived later and was clearly not a Mayan, but a Toltec. If he even lived or existed at all... Although, judging by the deciphered inscriptions in the tomb, the stories of this legendary figure and the deceased are similar in some ways. Both, for example, were against human sacrifice.
  However, there are many more differences. For example, judging by one phrase, the buried Kukulkan emerged not from Tolla, but from... the Sacred Cenote. A similar story was told about one of the city's much later rulers, so this is likely the source of this legend. All sorts of tales are told about the origins of kings.
  But the rest of the inscriptions seemed completely nonsensical. For example, what does this mean: "Jaguarundi woman, her name is the women's grotto"?
  "Jaguarundi... Woman... Wild cat, partially tamed. And the grotto?.. Female... Virgin waters... Life came out of the cave... Womb... Really?.. Lord God!"
  The scientist and atheist herself didn't realize she was addressing God directly. And there was no one else—if what she understood was true. And it was—Ilona felt it with her whole soul. But then, either she or the entire world would go mad!
  Cat Lona!
  Ilona stared wildly at the photograph hanging across from the table. A man with a large, dented forehead and a hard, slanted mouth stared at her from under his furrowed brows with piercing, magical eyes. He held a Siamese cat in his arms.
  
   Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh, Ilona Linkova. Mexico. Chichen Itza. Night of November 1-2, 1990
  "Well, why are you so sad, Lona the Cat?" EVK stroked her head, and Ilona thought that's how he stroked his cats.
  He came to her hotel room just as Ilona was getting ready for bed. For some reason, she didn't turn on the light. However, it was bright enough, thanks to the enormous moon shining right through the window.
  She reached for his hand, like a cat. She felt pleased. And anxious. A strange confusion of emotions. She didn't like such emotional paradoxes; she craved clarity and certainty. But with EVK... with Zhenya, that couldn't happen.
  He seemed to be made up of paradoxes. A stern and unsmiling teacher, a great scientist who had accomplished the impossible in science. Mischievous as a boy, a lover of practical jokes, sometimes elaborate, often crude. A lover of fantasy, mystification, and even simple lies. Prone to depression, during which he wanted to see no one but his beloved cat, while empty liquor bottles clanked under his desk. Sometimes caustically sarcastic and cold, sometimes sincere and vulnerable. A brilliant and intelligent teacher. A loyal friend. An attentive and tender lover.
  But too often she felt as if she never really knew this man.
  It wasn't that he was much older than her—after all, a sixty-year-old man and a thirty-four-year-old woman were almost normal. But sometimes she saw a universal alienation in his eyes. Then she felt as if he were intently examining something beyond this world, only absentmindedly and fleetingly taking in what was happening here. Including her, Ilona.
  "Zhenya, maybe we shouldn't go to the cenote now? We'll go together tomorrow, during the day..."
  "No!" His huge blue eyes, beneath his furrowed black brows, flashed furiously. His mouth became a completely straight line.
  Ilona shuddered, and he immediately came to his senses.
  - Sorry, Lona, I'm nervous.
  He pulled a Belomor cigarette out of his pocket, crumpled it as usual, and masterfully, with one hand, struck a match on the box.
  Ilona took out a Camel, and he lit her one too.
  — I need to do this, and I need to do it alone. Do you understand?
  She shrugged sadly. He'd always been a little odd, which was what attracted her. Perhaps, of course, it was his terrible childhood. But that alone hardly made him so brilliant—it was simply frightening. Reasonable and completely realistic, Ilona pushed away strange memories that didn't fit into her neat picture of the world. On the expedition, her tooth, frozen by the cold Siberian winds, had been a terrible ache all night, and the first aid kit contained nothing stronger than analgin, which didn't help at all. Neither did the fifty grams of alcohol she'd taken. And then EVK simply stroked her face. She still remembers that touch, after which the pain miraculously subsided.
  It seemed that it was then that she first looked at him as something other than an eccentric old professor.
  They told stranger stories about him. She herself had seen that sometimes he seemed to cross a line, leading a parallel, incomprehensible existence.
  But now, in Mexico, where he had arrived for the first time in his life—knowing absolutely everything about its past—EVK had become completely obsessed. He was greeted here as a triumphant hero. And no wonder: this man had deciphered the Mayan script, something no one had managed for four hundred years. And in doing so, he had given this country, and several others, a written ancient history.
  The president awarded him the Order of the Aztec Eagle, and journalists besieged him everywhere. Wherever he went, he was greeted by rapturous crowds. But he seemed completely indifferent to all this pandemonium, feeling only mild bewilderment. He examined ancient monuments he knew so well but had only just now seen with his own eyes, remained modestly silent at receptions, spoke sparingly about his personal life in interviews and at length about Mayan writing. But behind all this, Ilona sensed a terrible, inhuman tension. And a striving toward some goal. What goal?
  She didn’t know - she wanted to and was very afraid to find out.
  The moon seemed to approach them, flooding the entire room with a ghostly light, illuminating the far corners. Nimble geckos darted along the walls. The cicadas' siren-like song faded completely, then began again.
  Suddenly, Ilona nearly screamed in horror—a grinning skeleton, entwined with flowers, emerged from a dark corner. It seemed to move and float toward her in the moonlight. However, she immediately calmed down, remembering that the eerie statue stood there as a decoration for the Day of the Dead, celebrated today and tomorrow by the entire country.
  "How will this be according to the Mayan calendar?" Ilona wondered for some reason and began to tensely translate the dates in her mind.
  She needed something to distract herself.
  Evgeny finished his cigarette and crushed it in the ashtray.
  “Lona, listen...” he seemed to not know how to begin.
  She froze.
  "You know," he continued slowly, "three codices have survived..."
  She hadn't expected this. Anything—"be my wife," "I'm a CIA (KGB) agent," even "I'm an alien." But not about Mayan writing again! Was he even capable of thinking or talking about anything else?
  Yes, of course, she knew perfectly well that only three authentic Mayan manuscripts had survived to this day—the Dresden, Paris, and Madrid codices. A fourth had recently surfaced, but it was almost certainly a forgery. And copies of these three codices had somehow ended up in EVK's possession when he was still a promising student. He'd worked with them and discovered that, contrary to popular belief, Mayan hieroglyphs weren't ideograms, but a phonetic writing system, and... What on earth was he even doing this for? Had he decided to give her a test at night?
  "12.18.17.9.13 according to the long count, 3 Ben according to the Tzolkin, and 6 Sak according to the Haab," today's date suddenly appeared clearly in Ilona's mind. She even clearly saw the Mayan symbols.
  “Actually, there are four of them,” Evgeny continued evenly.
  She instantly forgot about the calendar and looked at the man in surprise.
  - You said that the Grolier Code...
  "Yes, that fake," he waved his hand impatiently. "I'm talking about the one that has no name... I've had it. For a long time."
  It sounded like a statement: "I have an unknown original da Vinci hanging in my kitchen." Ilona looked at Evgeny in bewilderment, as he spoke faster and faster, as if something had broken through inside him.
  "I wouldn't have been able to decipher anything without him... And no one else would have been able to. There are illustrations... drawings... In short, I'm not bilingual, of course, but it's a unique Rosetta Stone. Well, look for yourself."
  He reached into the inside pocket of his shabby, old-fashioned jacket and pulled out a wooden pencil case, darkened with age. He undid the metal clasps and...
  Ilona couldn't believe her eyes. Yes, it was a Mayan codex—a folded, worn sheet of cloth, covered with hieroglyphs and drawings on both sides. And in excellent condition. Only... It was clearly not made of amatl—the paper made from the bark of ficus trees, the material used in ancient Yucatan.
  “Deerskin,” nodded Evgeny, noticing her bewilderment.
  - But...
  — Yes, they wrote on leather during the classical period. Around the beginning of the seventh century.
  Ilona gasped in amazement: all the surviving codices were written five to eight hundred years later. In the Yucatan, in the hot, damp climate, with myriad insects gnawing at everything, no hidden manuscripts had a chance of surviving any longer.
  - You are sure?..
  — That it is genuine? Yes. Completely.
  Ilona gazed eagerly at the treasure. It was stunning! A graduate student at the Cromlech Museum, a senior researcher at the Museum of Anthropology and Ethnography who had defended her dissertation on the semiotics of Mayan texts, Ilona clearly saw that this codex was fundamentally different not only from other surviving ones, but from all other known Mayan written monuments.
  "I don't understand," she complained, looking up from the manuscript. "This is nonsense..."
  — An archaic language. For the later Mayans, it was what Church Slavonic is to us.
  - And you understand this?
  - More than.
  Something in his tone alerted Ilona. She looked closely at his face. In the moonlight, it was enigmatic, like the face of an ancient sculpture.
  - What's there?
  — Something like a prayer from a priest-king to the god Bolon Yokte, a lament for his deceased wife, and instructions for his descendant. That's the general idea.
  — Where did he come from anyway? Why did no one know about him?!
  — The Germans found it in the 1920s. In Chichen Itza, in the "Church" next to the "House of the Nuns," I think. Grave robbers. They didn't even realize what they'd found. Von der Goltz's expedition.
  — How did you get it? And why does no one know about it?
  - That's why he doesn't know...
  
   Zhenya Kromlech. German Reich. East Prussia. Estate of Baron von der Goltz. April 18, 1945.
  The cannonade in the east grew louder with each passing day, filling the entire sky. And across this sky flew planes with red stars on their wings—many of them, day and night. They were flying to bomb Pillau.
  The day before, Zhenya, along with other Ostarbeiters, was taken to work on the estate of Herr Baron.
  Three years have passed since Zhenya, who was visiting his mother's relatives near Kharkov during the holidays and ended up under occupation, was taken out of the cinema by the Germans, along with a crowd of other boys and girls, loaded into train cars and sent to Germany.
  During this time, he had become quite an adult. Thin, tall, slightly stooped, with a hard mouth, strong and sinewy from hard farm work, he looked much older than his fourteen years. Only his large blue eyes remained clear, like a child's.
  He already spoke German quite well. In the village, where the Ostarbeiters went on Sundays, happily escaping from their twenty-man barracks, the local young frauleins glanced at him with interest. It was understandable—German boys were being relentlessly decimated by the front lines. And life went on. Even the risk didn't stop the girls—associating with a boy wearing a white patch with the inscription "OST" could lead to their being pilloried. And an Untermensch would have been sent to a concentration camp. However, in the countryside, morals were much freer and more lenient.
  In general, pretty sixteen-year-old Monica had already secluded herself with Zhenya many times, either in the neighboring forest or in the hayloft.
  He was pleased, but he didn't feel any particular rapture. He had a secret that brought him far greater joy than his interactions with the girl. This secret always accompanied him, but during those years of captivity, it alone gave him the strength to survive. Everyone who interacted with him—his fellow sufferers exiled from the USSR, the ambiguous Galicians and Poles, and even the Germans—subconsciously sensed something strange about him and... not exactly avoided him, but treated him with a kind of timid caution.
  Several times, he used his hands to heal various ailments in his barracks mates. He couldn't remember when this ability had emerged—certainly after the blow to the head and the hospital stay. He simply knew that if he laid his hands on a groaning person, they would feel better. And he did so, without much thought to the nature of his ability or the fact that these instances made those around him view him differently than they did everyone else.
  He also often knew what would happen. When Monika's lame uncle caught them together and attacked him with wild German curses and a huge stick, Zhenya only looked at him, knowing he would stop, lower the stick, turn around, and walk away silently. And then never say a word to anyone about it. And that's exactly what happened. Things like this didn't happen to Zhenya very often, but they did happen.
  And he dreamed all the time. He fell asleep knowing he was dreaming, and in his dreams he had free will: he could, for example, raise his hands to his face and examine them, he could go somewhere, or rather, float through space, as happens with the sleepy consciousness. But these were not ordinary, vague visions—reality chewed over by the subconscious. This was reality—a different one.
  Sometimes he found himself in some truly incredible places, if you could even call them that. There was nothing there but riotous colors, some cyclopean multicolored layers of existence that intertwined and mingled, continually forming new patterns, as if he were inside a vast kaleidoscope.
  It was grandiose, terrifying, and captivating, but when he grew tired of simmering in the cosmic energy currents, he simply dozed off among them—slept in his sleep. And he would go to one of the familiar places. Sometimes he would go visit his parents and brothers. He saw them in real time, heard their conversations, and knew they were alive and where they were. But he couldn't show himself to them.
  Another time, it was some ancient city. Zhenya, who loved history lessons at school, knew it was ancient. The buildings, the people who surrounded him there, the things—everything spoke of it. And everywhere there were signs, the ones he'd automatically written down on a piece of paper as a child. In this dream, Zhenya, who was a great man in that city, understood their meaning perfectly well and wrote them down himself. But when he woke up, he'd completely forgotten what they meant.
  Many things happened to him in that city, most of which simply didn't register in his childhood mind. But in his dreams, he was an adult, strong, intelligent. And very sad. This feeling haunted Zhenya in reality, too.
  And other times, he traveled to truly incredible places. Under an otherworldly sky, on the shores of some strange sea, where people built unusual buildings... Well, not really people, but... Zhenya didn't know who they were, but they definitely weren't people. And he was one of them.
  And then he'd find himself in the water, swimming and breathing—freely, like a fish. Or maybe he really was. But even for a fish, this was a very, very unusual place... Sometimes he'd find himself right out of there and into something no less strange—some kind of flooded caves, with bizarre growths and what looked like ropes and cables hanging from the ceilings.
  He also saw a certain woman very often, a woman who was important to him. He knew this, but he was never able to see her face—it seemed clearly visible, but he couldn't quite pin its features down in his mind.
  — Arbeit, schweine!*
  Zhenya woke up from the thoughts that had come over him, as always, at the most inopportune moment, and grabbed the handle of the heavy box that needed to be loaded into the back of the truck more comfortably.
  He didn't glance at Herr Andreas, the estate manager, who was yelling and spitting with rage. He was an extremely unpleasant and vile man, hated by both the Russian Ostabeiters, the Polish Civilian Beiters, and the local Germans.
  To avoid looking at the disgusting face, Zhenya concentrated on the boxes. The courtyard of the mansion was piled high with them. They needed to be loaded onto four trucks, but it looked like they wouldn't all fit, which only added to the ire of the bilious manager. Two dozen SS men on motorcycles with machine guns phlegmatically watched the loading process. Baron von der Goltz himself, lean and trim, in the uniform of an SS Standartenführer, smoked a cigar and surveyed the proceedings through a monocle from the huge second-floor living room window.
  They kept dragging boxes out of the house. Zhenya knew what was in them: Monika, along with other village girls, had cleaned Herr Baron's house several times and told her about the many strange and apparently very old objects kept in glass cases. When she described these eerie figurines, darkened vessels, and stones with incomprehensible inscriptions, Zhenya, realizing that these were all ancient finds, passionately desired to see them.
  And now they were near him, but still inaccessible. And now they would be taken away to an unknown destination.
  The roar of airplanes was heard in the sky.
  “Ours,” thought Zhenya.
  The SS men glanced absently at the sky. Everyone here was already accustomed to the waves of Soviet planes bombing large targets and ignoring the small estate.
  But these were not bombers.
  - Achtung! Black Tod!** - an alarming cry rang out, and the soldiers scattered in all directions.
  Yes, they were two IL-2 attack aircraft, and the Germans called them "Black Death." For good reason.
  Perhaps this unit was on a freelance search and, for lack of a more worthy target, took on a group of SS men on motorcycles in the courtyard of a manor house. Or perhaps someone tipped them off to the Standartenführer greasing his heels with lard—Zhenka never found out.
  The planes flew low over the estate and dropped explosive charges. The soldiers managed to fire several bursts of machine gun fire at them. Then the explosions began.
  Zhenya found himself lying on his back in the depths of the courtyard. For several minutes, he was completely lost. His consciousness, as usual, drew him into a world of swirling, colorful waves. But he quickly emerged from there.
  Someone else was lying on top of him—that was the first thing he felt upon returning to the terrible world. He twitched his arms wildly, trying to free himself from the weight. It became easier. The young man stood up and looked around.
  He didn’t hear any sounds and had poor vision, but the horror of what had happened was obvious.
  The stormtroopers dropped their bombs and retreated to base. The yard was shrouded in smoke and clouds of dust. The trucks were burning. One was completely gone. Half the estate was ablaze, too. Its roof had collapsed inward, all the windows were blown out—including the enormous one, behind which Herr Baron had just loomed. A tongue of flame erupted from it.
  Broken crates lay scattered all over the yard. And bodies—SS men and workers. Some groaned and tried to rise, others lay motionless.
  Zhenya, his eyes dim from the dust, looked at the burden he'd just thrown off. It was a corpse, its head almost completely missing. A decent three-piece suit, stained with dirt and blood, and a gold watch chain. Herr Andreas.
  Zhenya had seen all sorts of dead people in three years, so the sight of the manager's mangled body didn't shock him—there was plenty to mourn. He looked at the scattered things around him. Apparently, the shock wave that had carried him to the edge of the yard had shattered the box he was lifting. All sorts of belongings scattered out—shards, some carved figurines... The terrifying face of a fantastical creature made of green stone stared back at Zhenya. And next to it lay an open, oblong wooden pencil case.
  Zhenya tugged at a frayed corner of some paper sticking out... No, not paper... Something like leather. Very old leather. A long, accordion-folded scroll unfurled in his hands.
  The boy stared in shock at the signs covering him. These were the very signs he had drawn as a child, not understanding their meaning. The ones he had written in the strange city of his dreams.
  Now he knew they were ancient Mayan hieroglyphs, still undeciphered. He'd read enough on the subject to understand what treasure he held in his hands.
  And he knew with all his being that he now held his fate in his hands. This knowledge came to him, as always, from nowhere, and it was immutable.
  Without thinking, Zhenya folded the scroll, hid it back in the pencil case, put it under his bosom, and through the chaos of the yard, amid the groans and screams of people who had not yet come to their senses, ran into the nearby forest, where he hid until dusk.
  That night, he quietly knocked on Monika's window. For a week, before the Russians arrived in the village, she hid him in the barn, which was half-empty due to wartime.
  Zhenya went out to his people unburdened – the precious pencil case was securely hidden between two mossy boulders at the base of the barn.
  
   *Get to work, pigs! (German)
  ** Attention! Black Death! (German)
  3
  
  Editorial from the newspaper Excelsior, Mexico City, November 18, 1990
  The ancient Mayans called him to them.
  The Russian hero of Mexico disappeared without a trace in the Sacred Cenote of Chichen Itza.
  Yesterday, the search at the Sacred Cenote of Chichen Itza concluded. Government divers have ceased their dives into the ancient well. Apparently, the body of the great scientist Evgeny Kromlekh was completely absorbed into the bottom silt.
  As our newspaper has already reported, the Soviet scientist Evgeny Kromlekh, while in the ancient city of Chichen Itza, built by a people whose writing he alone was able to read, unexpectedly went at night to the Sacred Cenote, into which the Mayans threw people for sacrifice.
  "I don't really know anything," says Ilona Linkova, a student of Kromlech who accompanied him on the trip. "Yevgeny Valentinovich came to my place last night and said he urgently needed to see something among the city ruins. He didn't say what exactly. He left the hotel, and I never saw him again."
  The young woman's eyes are dry, but it is clear that she is deeply distressed by the disappearance of her mentor.
  "Perhaps Professor Cromlech was stressed by the very situation of finding himself for the first time in his life in a country whose ancient history he had practically discovered single-handedly," suggests Antonio Delgado, a graduate student in the Department of Anthropology at the University of California, Los Angeles. Señor Delgado specializes in ancient civilizations in our country, which is why he was included in the group that accompanied Cromlech on his trips to Mexico.
  "I don't rule out suicide," he continues. "Like all geniuses, Señor Cromlech was a complex man... But those weeks I spent with him will have an impact on my entire life. This man's personality and his ideas made a stunning, indelible impression on me."
  So what really happened to Professor Kromlech? Was it a spontaneous suicide, perhaps induced by alcohol? Or is there a dark connection to the KGB or CIA? Or perhaps this is the revenge of the Native American shamans, whose secrets are about to be revealed thanks to Kromlech?
  Apparently, this will remain a mystery. What is clear is that this great man has remained here forever, in the country he loved so much and for which he did so much. The ancient Mayans called him, and now he dwells among them.
  
  Evgeniy Valentinovich Cromlech. USSR. Leningrad. March 29, 1959
  "I thank the members of the dissertation committee, my esteemed opponents, and, of course, my supervisor for the opportunity to defend the tenets of my thesis. And I am especially grateful for the trust you have shown in awarding me a doctorate. I view this as an advance payment on my future research."
  As he spoke these smooth phrases almost automatically, Yevgeny glanced around the audience. He still didn't quite trust reality, didn't accept what had happened as a fait accompli. Just now, these nineteen elderly people had unanimously awarded him a doctorate in history. Instead of the candidate's degree he had actually been seeking.
  It seemed to him that his report lasted only a few minutes—he barely had time to say anything. Then came the speeches of his opponents. They were quite strange—they didn't seem to have intended to find fault with any of his propositions. For example, two or three minor comments concerning the biography of the Franciscan Diego de Landa, the second bishop of Yucatán, to whom Cromlech's dissertation was formally dedicated.
  The fact is that Monsignor de Landa, while still simply Diego's brother, became the first European to attempt to read Mayan script and even compose its alphabet. An attempt with inadequate means, but it was a start. And the winner of this centuries-long marathon of codebreakers was he, Eugene Kromlekh.
  Evgeny felt a surge of pride, somehow mingled with anxiety. He flashed before him the years that had passed since those terrible moments when he stood, covered in mud and blood, outside von der Goltz's burning mansion, an old wooden pencil case in his hands. Since then, some force had been inexorably drawing him toward an unknown goal.
  He was a displaced person, meaning he was destined for a filtration camp. And, as he later realized, life in the USSR was hard, where even the young age of those deported to Germany didn't save them from suspicion of treason. However, fate was kind to Zhenya—his parents, who had arrived from Leningrad, took him from the camp as soon as they were informed that their son had been found.
  Zhenya's father was no longer an "enemy of the people." In May 1939, after Yezhov's arrest, his father was released, the charges dropped. Zhenya remembered him coming home—emaciated, unshaven, with a hand mangled by torture. More significantly, he wasn't rearrested when the next wave of repressions began. The scent of war was already strong in the air, so the experienced and distinguished railway engineer was in high demand. This was confirmed both in the first months of the war, when my father was evacuating factories beyond the Urals, and later, when he restored destroyed railway lines and bridges for the advancing Red Army.
  Zhenya's mother and brothers were evacuated from St. Petersburg to Chelyabinsk. His father was at the front and, by the end of the war, had acquired considerable influence and many connections. After the siege was lifted, the family returned to Leningrad. Ultimately, his father was able to pull some strings to ensure that the vigilant authorities would let the boy, who at twelve years old had accidentally fallen into the occupied territories and then into Germany, escape their notice. Zhenya's peers, who had suffered a similar fate, fared much worse.
  At home, Zhenya immediately and categorically declared his intention to study at the history department. Since he'd been meaning to go there for a long time, this didn't surprise his family. He felt nothing but boundless certainty that his destiny lay there. He would study the Mayan civilization. Whatever that meant.
  True, he faced a small obstacle—a few missed years of school. But Zhenya didn't care. After a year of independent study, he passed his high school exams and enrolled in the history department of Leningrad University, which wasn't yet known as Zhdanovsky University. But there, more serious problems arose.
  He passed the entrance exams with flying colors, but felt uneasy during the interview. His interviewer was Nikolai Alekseevich Stolyarov, already considered a leading figure in atheism, the USSR's leading academic atheist, who had thoroughly studied religious misconceptions of all times and peoples. In fact, he was indeed a significant authority in comparative religion, with his main specialization being shamanism.
  At first, Zhenya thought he was speaking to him a little cautiously. Moreover, he even detected a hint of pity in the professor's tone. This alarmed him. Perhaps years in captivity, or perhaps hidden abilities, had sharpened Evgeny's ability to sense people's moods. In this case, the professor's mood did not bode well for the applicant.
  "Young man, you did very well on the entrance exams," Stolyarov said, not looking at Zhenya. "By the way, you speak German brilliantly. Is that because you lived in Germany?"
  — Yes... But I learned it back in Pit... Leningrad, at school... I also know English and French. And recently I started learning Spanish.
  "Commendable," Stolyarov shook his head. "And you did excellently in Russian. Maybe you should have gone into philology?"
  "I want to study history," Zhenya answered firmly, looking the professor in the eye. He looked away.
  "You're still very young. You haven't even turned seventeen yet, have you? You have time to think, to decide..."
  “I want to study the ancient Mayans,” Evgeny answered evenly.
  The professor shuddered and was silent for a few seconds, looking intently at the young man.
  - Maya? Why them?
  “I want to read their writings,” came the calm reply.
  Stolyarov smiled openly.
  "It's hardly a feasible task," he said softly. "The problem of deciphering Mayan writing is insoluble."
  The cromlech raised its head.
  "That's the title of an article by a German, Paul Schellhas. I read it," he replied. "I think Schellhas was mistaken."
  "Do you think... he... was mistaken?" the professor asked, pausing ironically.
  Zhenya nodded.
  “What is created by one human mind cannot fail to be deciphered by another,” he said quietly.
  Something flashed in Stolyarov's eyes.
  "You're wise beyond your years," he remarked, looking at the applicant with some surprise. "And, you know... I think we've finished the interview."
  The next day, Zhenya found himself on the list of those accepted into the history department. He and his neighbor, Kolya, bought two bottles of vodka and got drunk. Not for the first or last time.
  All this unfolded before Yevgeny Kromlekh now, as he, a shot of vodka in hand but completely sober, surveyed the revelry he'd ordered at a restaurant for the dissertation committee. The banquet was a mandatory part of the defense—often prohibitive for impoverished graduate students. Stolyarov helped him out financially.
  Who, heavily intoxicated, with a bottle in one hand and a shot glass in the other, now approached Evgeny.
  - Well, doctor, let's clink glasses!
  The face of Cromlech's supervisor beamed. He tipped back his shot with a flourish and, with a guffaw, hugged Evgeny.
  "You're a genius! Do you know you're a genius?!" he wailed, clapping his student on the back.
  Evgeny continued to remain sober, which is surprising, since he never missed a toast.
  “Sit down, Nikolai Alekseevich,” he invited the research director.
  The banquet had reached its climax, and no one paid any attention to them.
  Stolyarov plopped down on the chair next to them and immediately refilled their glasses.
  “Zhenka, Zhenka,” he almost sang, “I didn’t fully believe that you would succeed.”
  "I still can't believe it myself," Evgeny shrugged. "And what I can't believe most of all is that I just became a doctor."
  "Ah..." Stolyarov waved his hand, casting a dismissive glance at the drunken crowd of learned men and women. "Do you think any of them understand what you've done? I hardly understand it myself. In the world of Mayan script specialists... there are three... well, four. And in the Soviet Union, you're the only one. And how would they have opposed you? They were told to, so they gave you a doctorate."
  "Told?" Kromlech raised his eyebrows. And then realized he wasn't surprised at all.
  "Uh-huh," Stolyarov muttered. He seemed to regret what he had just said. However, the regret was short-lived.
  "Oh, whatever," he waved his hand. "You should know..."
  He refilled the glasses, knocked back his own, and continued talking. He seemed to be enjoying it.
  "You shouldn't have gone to the history department in the first place. DP, you worked for the Germans, even as a kid, but still..."
  Eugene nodded.
  — I felt during the interview that you didn’t want to hire me.
  "That's what I wanted," Stolyarov shook his head. "It's no joke: the kid knows history better than some graduate students. And most importantly, he knows how to think and wants to do something in science... I realized back then that you were a genius."
  He shook Zhenya's shoulder again. But then he suddenly became sad.
  "But you know... one's own shirt... it's closer to the body. There were times like that—if you moved even slightly to the side, you'd get a full-blown thud."
  “And how then?” Evgeny was genuinely curious.
  “And you mentioned the Mayans,” Stolyarov blurted out and knocked back another shot.
  "So what?" Evgeny asked, emptying his.
  - Otherwise...
  The professor seemed to be in some doubt again.
  "So..." he began. "It's like this. The owner... Well, you know... The deceased one, with the personality cult. Basically, he was trying to shut down Marxism."
  "What do you mean?" Kromlech's eyes widened. He hadn't expected such a confession, nor that it would come from the seemingly ideologically impeccable Professor Stolyarov, who always gave the impression of being a staunch Marxist-Leninist.
  But he only nodded affirmatively.
  — Back in the late twenties. Then the tenets of Marxism crumbled—the bourgeois world wasn't developing as the classics had predicted.
  Evgeny looked at the teacher, stunned. He continued.
  "It all started with Lloyd Smith's automaton factory in Milwaukee—well, it didn't fit into Marxism at all; there was no proletariat there, no hegemon. But that's the foundation of everything. And then there's more..."
  Nikolai Alekseevich pulled another shot.
  "Basically, the Master had it all figured out—he was smart, that's for sure. And he came to the only correct decision, from his point of view: the USSR must live, the principles of Marxism must be preserved. But only in appearance—for the people. But the educated party members, who knew the classics practically by heart, didn't fit into this scheme and could expose the game. And then—you know what happened..."
  “No man, no problem,” Evgeny nodded, his face darkening, remembering his father’s mutilated hand.
  "Well, to cover this up," Stolyarov continued, oblivious to Yevgeny's anger, "many others were caught in the mix. And then the perpetrators were caught. And the trail was lost."
  "What does the Maya have to do with this?" Zhenya shrugged.
  "Listen, listen. When Lenin's entire guard was wiped out, the Master, apparently, was planning to gradually reveal to the people that the socialist experiment was over, and that what would follow would be a regular empire. With him at the helm, of course. But then the war happened, and there was no time for that. Then the country had to be rebuilt, and socialist slogans came in handy again. And then he died.
  "What about the Mayans?" Zhenya persisted.
  "The Mayans..." Stolyarov paused. "The Mayans don't fit into Marxism either, you know that yourself."
  “Yes,” Evgeny nodded, “Engels wrote that they didn’t have a class society...”
  "And if there wasn't," Stolyarov continued, "then there couldn't have been a state, an army, or, especially, a written language. And you took that written language and read it."
  - But you said there wouldn't be any problems when I took on this job...
  — I said so. Because I already had permission...
  The professor lowered his voice, leaned down to be closer to Zhenya and said in a low voice, shaking his head back vaguely:
  — From there.
  Evgeny realized he was referring to the Big House on Liteiny. KGB. Back then, it was still the MGB.
  "You see, Zhenya, I was one of those historians selected right after graduation to slowly erode the dogma," Stolyarov continued, adding another vodka. "After the war, they were planning to restart the business, they were getting ready, but then the Master died. We were all told to keep quiet and do something... away from the main line. So I switched to shamans. And, by the way, I don't regret it."
  "And they wanted to switch me to them?" Kromlekh looked sharply at the research director.
  But he shook his head.
  "Temporarily, Zhenya, until things settle down. I went to Liteiny specifically because of you, to see a certain colonel... He's also in the know about the ideology. Besides Himself, there were a couple more... well, maybe more... people in the Politburo... and there still are... who want to put an end to Marxism. But the current First is against it... categorically. And if anything is done, it's at your own risk and secretly. Very secretly... And that's why they kept you at the faculty for the future. And as for Engels, it's simple: the classic, they say, didn't have all the sources on Mayan history. And that's why the Cromlech doesn't refute him, but on the contrary, contributes to the development of Marxism. That's how it is... But you, Zhenya, watch out—keep quiet!"
  Stolyarov shook his finger at Kromlech, making a stern face, which, however, immediately broke into a drunken grin again.
  "I knew you'd go into Maya anyway. I knew it, that's all. And don't ask me why..."
  Nikolai Alekseevich's face hardened again—he didn't like to think about it. He might have doubts about Marxism, but he was firmly convinced of atheism. He detested any kind of devilry. His motto was unwavering rationality. In fact, it was precisely because of this that he secretly rejected Marxism—the dogma was riddled with logical holes, and he was astonished that none of his colleagues saw this. But, of course, any superstition—from belief in a resurrected God to fear of a black cat crossing his path—was an even greater crime against rationality.
  But then, at the interview, after the boy with stubborn blue eyes beneath a huge, dented forehead firmly told him he wanted to study Maya, something came over the professor. First, he somehow knew with absolute certainty that this boy would decipher the Mayan symbols, even though the very thought seemed preposterous. And second...
  ...The professor suddenly found himself in a world unlike anything else, as if inside a kaleidoscope, constantly spun by some powerful force. Vibrant colors, impossible to see in reality, intermingled in the most bizarre ways, creating magnificent patterns that instantly disintegrated and merged into new ones. And so on, endlessly. There was infinity here—Stolyarov somehow knew it. Moreover, he could comprehend the very concept, and it no longer frightened him.
  And from this pattern of infinity, a human face suddenly emerged. The face of Cromlech. But it was no longer the anxious youth sitting across from the professor, with piercing eyes and a huge forehead disfigured by a dent. No. It was... If Nikolai Alekseevich hadn't been an atheist, he would have said it was some kind of god. But since there was no God, another word emerged: "Leader." It was an adult, perhaps even an old man—a very old and majestic man, whose face was infinitely calm and wise. His eyes were closed, but Stolyarov knew the Leader was alive.
  And then the face began to change frighteningly—while somehow remaining the face of a prospective student with dim prospects named Kromlech. But... it was no longer human. No, definitely not human, but something like a reptile—with bluish-gray skin, covered in places with some kind of horny scales, a bony crest on its head, and a small mouth tightly closed by four lips... The wrinkled eyelids lifted, and bulging eyes with red irises and slit-like pupils stared straight at the professor. The membranous third eyelid blinked quickly. Stolyarov could see gill slits beneath the eyes...
  "Maya? Why them specifically?" he heard himself respond to the applicant's remark, as if from a distance. In the real world, time hadn't moved. Stolyarov had tightly closed the shutter in his mind to his vision.
  Now, in drunken relaxation, the damper opened slightly, and Stolyarov threw another portion of alcohol into himself to close it again.
  But Evgeny understood what was happening within the professor's creation. He himself had often seen this multicolored, multilayered, constantly changing infinity, from which sometimes came visions of wondrous places and strange creatures. Kromlech no longer thought, as he sometimes did as a child, that he had gone mad. Now he knew—with absolute certainty—that this was his destiny. And that no KGB, no Stolyarov, not even the Master himself—indeed, no one at all—could stand between him and its fulfillment. And if they tried, the Universe itself would oppose it.
  4
  
  Evgeny Kromlekh. USSR. Kaliningrad Oblast. June 21, 1947.
  Another car passed Zhenya, spraying dust, its driver ignoring his raised hand. Already the tenth. Or maybe the twelfth. Kromlekh hadn't counted them in a while—about an hour, probably. He was simply trudging along the highway from Pillau... or rather, Baltiysk.
  ...Convincing his father was easy: Zhenya told him about Monica and how he longed to see her again. He truly did want to see her, though he could have lived without it. But getting into her uncle's barn was absolutely essential...
  It took a bit longer to persuade his mother, repeating numerous times that he would come back immediately as soon as he found out he was with a girl. His father's connections in the railway world easily resolved all the difficulties with both the documents and the ticket. Perhaps even too easily, but Zhenya didn't think about that.
  He had excellent papers, stating that Kromlekh E.V. had been sent to the Kaliningrad region to work on a collective farm. Such temporary settlers—along with permanent ones—came here from all over the Soviet Union after the war, and Zhenya simply got lost in this crowd.
  After forty hours of bouncing around in a train car through Belarus and Lithuania, he got off at the marshalling yard in Königsberg... of course, also in Kaliningrad, now serving as the station destroyed during the assault on the city. However, Zhenya reached the station building, looked at its ruins scorched by Soviet flamethrowers, admired the miraculously intact sculpture of Chronos taming horses, and gazed at the majestic, soot-blackened vaults and gaping openings of enormous, shattered windows. And then he set off to find out how to get to the "Red Route" state farm—as von der Goltz's former estate was now known.
  Another three hours to Baltiysk—across the entire Samland Peninsula on a plodding train of mixed-size carriages. The scene there was bleak—uniform two-story gray houses with high tiled roofs, a highway that doubled as the main street, an ancient fortress, canals, and a lighthouse jutting out to sea. The city itself was also thoroughly destroyed, but the most obvious traces of the war had already been cleared away.
  All this flashed before Zhenya, leaving only a faint ripple in his consciousness—like indistinct, rapidly changing scenery in a strange performance. They had no meaning—for him, all that existed was the barn in the small German village—a squat building with a thatched, sloping roof and riven walls of darkened boards. He clearly saw the gray, moss-covered boulders that formed the structure's foundation. In a narrow crevice between them, he had hidden the greatest treasure of his life. For some reason, he was certain the codex awaited him, safe and sound.
  ...The highway was quite busy—cars crammed with people and cargo, as well as light-duty vehicles, mostly captured, carrying men in military uniforms, sped along. But no one was in a hurry to stop and give a lift to a lone young man.
  However, the truck, having driven a few meters past him, suddenly braked. Zhenya ran towards it as fast as he could.
  "Can you get me to the Red Route?" Zhenya asked hopefully of the slightly older guy with the simple, open face who opened the door.
  He broke into a smile.
  - Yes, I'm just there, bro. Get in, the ride will be even more fun.
  Not believing his luck, Zhenya slid into the cabin.
  “Mishka,” the guy extended a large, very firm hand to him.
  - Zhenya.
  They drove for about two hours. Mishka chattered incessantly, occasionally asking his fellow traveler quick questions, listening to them with only half an ear, and then immediately continuing to talk about his own affairs. Zhenya, who had only said he was looking for a house for a family planning to move there, learned all about the guy himself. He was from Tver, that is, Kalinin, an orphanage, drafted into the army straight after school, and had managed to fight for a year, including in this area. So, when the new Soviet region began recruiting settlers, he didn't hesitate long. Kalinin and Kaliningrad were all the same to him, and he had liked East Prussia even during the war. Moreover, in Kalinin he lived in a dormitory room for ten people, whereas here you could move into any abandoned house. Now he worked as a driver for the Red Route and, overall, was happy with his life.
  In general, as Zhenya noted, his new acquaintance's main trait was a positively bubbling optimism, a confidence that sooner or later everything would be fine, even wonderful. However, Evgeny was rather disheartened by the houses with their missing roof tiles, which he remembered as clean and tidy, the emaciated people in the villages, and the lines of brazen rats darting across the road in broad daylight.
  However, all of this was also immediately thrown to the periphery of consciousness, as not corresponding to its main goal.
  The transformation of a tidy German village into a run-down Soviet farm didn't impress him either. True, he didn't see any particular evil from the local inhabitants, but for him, they would always remain enemies. And the fact that instead of sedate deutschebauern*, squalid-looking Soviet collective farmers now scurried through the poorly maintained village streets, the air filled with the sound of Russian obscenities, didn't bother Zhenya much.
  The Bauers, however, were still there—familiar faces flickered here and there. Mishka went to deliver the cargo, and Zhenya, after a quick thank you, slipped behind a woman strolling down the street with a sack of something, a woman he thought looked familiar.
  “Gutenabend, frau **,” he addressed her.
  The response was overwhelming:
  “Hello, I’m your aunt,” the woman replied in Russian with a strong German accent, clearly not understanding the meaning of the phrase, which she had apparently borrowed from the Soviet newcomers.
  She was very young, but very neglected and dressed in some kind of gray rags.
  Yes, it was Helga, Monika's friend. Zhenya remembered her as a plump girl in a bright, traditional tracht costume, laughing infectiously among the young people. Now she was a faded, haggard creature.
  "Herr Eigen!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in amazement.
  At first, Zhenya didn't understand why his appearance had caused such a storm of emotion—he hadn't interacted much with Helga during his time in the village. But then she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the nearby ruins of a large farmhouse.
  "You don't need to be seen, Herr Eigen!" Evgeny caught in the endless stream of her words.
  - Fraulein Helga, please calm down and explain what is going on.
  Evgeniy's calm voice apparently brought the girl back to her senses somewhat.
  "Herr Eigen, they were asking about you," she blurted out, apparently fully confident that the boy would faint at these words. But he only looked at her expectantly, so she continued:
  — First, one man. From Königsberg itself... A few days after the Russians arrived. He walked and walked—through the village, through the burnt-out estate of Herr Baron...
  Helga lowered her voice dramatically:
  — And I walked there at night.
  - Russian?
  "No, a German... Or maybe not, but he spoke without an accent... Then, apparently, someone told him something about you, he started following Monika around, asking all about you. And he talked to her uncle, Herr Franz."
  "Where's Monica?" Zhenya was becoming increasingly anxious.
  But Helga only sobbed loudly and continued:
  "Then he disappeared somewhere, drove away, I guess. And two days ago..."
  The girl burst into tears, no longer trying to hide it. Zhenya stood over her, filled with a premonition of disaster.
  — The soldiers have arrived. Russians. From Pillau. In a truck. And an officer in a car.
  - And what?..
  — They took Monika, they took Herr Franz, they interrogated them. They searched the house and...
  She began to cry really bitterly.
  - They... took both of them away.
  - Where?
  — I don't know. To Pillau, probably. Herr Eigen, get out of here quickly, or they...
  Zhenya didn't listen to what exactly "they" would do. Mechanically reassuring Helga that everything would be fine, his mind raced.
  "Fräulein Helga," he finally said. "And when the soldiers searched the house, did they go into the barn?"
  "I don't know," the girl sobbed. "Maybe they did come in. I didn't see them, they told me."
  "Okay, then I'll be going. Don't worry, I'm only here for a short while. And anyway, this is probably some kind of mistake," he said, getting ready to leave.
  "Herr Eigen," Helga squeaked after him. "And that one... from Königsberg... He was seen in the village again. Last night."
  A chill ran through Zhenya. He hadn't expected such complications at all. He was certain no one knew about the hidden manuscript. What had happened?
  He quickly headed to the state farm's board of directors, where he was required to report according to his documents. The tired chairman, quite tipsy for the evening, poured Zhenya a third of a glass of moonshine, which he downed in one gulp—the boy was shaking with excitement.
  "Spend the night here," said the chairman. "You can find a place to stay tomorrow. Move into whichever one you want—more than half of them are empty."
  But Zhenya shook his head.
  "I'd better go for a walk now and look around. Maybe I'll find something right away."
  “Well, as you wish,” the chairman shrugged.
  Zhenya walked quickly through the village toward a familiar house, ignoring the tipsy settlers sitting in groups outside the inhabited houses and watching him go. However, there were too many new people here for him to be a complete outlier. And the Germans who had known him two years ago were apparently staying indoors and not showing their faces.
  Uncle Monica's house shocked him with its broken windows and sturdy doors wide open. He lit a flashlight and went inside.
  Everything there was turned upside down. Apparently, after the search, more people had come here and picked up everything of any value.
  Suddenly, Zhenya remembered Monica's stern, beautiful face, her shapely figure, and for a moment he was overcome with melancholy. After all, everything could have turned out completely differently...
  Evgeny abruptly shook off the melancholy induced by worry and alcohol. He had a different path. A completely different one.
  He had nothing to do in the house, so he went out into the yard and turned toward the barn. It loomed dark and gloomy in the depths of the yard.
  Zhenya had the disgusting sensation that someone's unkind gaze was boring into the back of his head. He suppressed the feeling with an effort.
  But in vain.
  The empty barn fell upon him with a resounding silence and gloom.
  The man watched Zhenya from a murky attic window under the roof of the house. The man knew the target had arrived in the village and understood that sooner or later he would come to this house. Whether he would look into the attic or not was unknown. But this was the most convenient place to spy on what he would do in the house, so it was worth taking the risk. And if the target did climb up to the attic... so much the worse for him.
  The man hadn't known the object would go into the barn—that was news to him. Now he was pondering what to do next.
  The man was accustomed to making decisions very quickly. His movements began even before he had completed his plan—to neutralize and search the target after he left the barn.
  The man assumed the target would emerge with an object, but he didn't know what it was. Ideally, he'd capture both the object and the target—the latter for interrogation. But that was impossible. The target would have to be eliminated, although the boss wouldn't praise him for it.
  The man opened the attic hatch and listened carefully to the silence of the devastated house. Everything seemed to be in order.
  He turned his back and began to carefully descend the creaking stairs. Halfway down, a steel grip grabbed his legs and yanked him sharply. He flew into the yawning void, but twisted mid-flight and managed to land on his feet without making much of a noise. At the same time, he pulled a knife from under his jacket and lunged at the shadowy figure.
  But his raised arm was firmly grabbed, and his legs were tripped. The man fell backward, attempting to trip his opponent's legs in turn. However, the opponent evaded the grip and ended up behind him. The man tried to spin around on the floor, using his leg as a lever, but his neck was gripped like a vice. The last thing he heard in this life was the crunch of his own vertebrae breaking.
  Having neutralized the enemy, the man calling himself Mishka the driver listened carefully. Apparently, the sounds of the brief fight hadn't reached the target in the barn. Reassured on this point, Mishka dragged the body to a corner and searched it thoroughly with a flashlight. As expected, he found nothing special—an army Finnish pistol, a Walther PP, and Soviet documents—fake, of course, but high-quality ones.
  Mishka covered the body with the rags lying around, climbed up to the attic, and took the place of the man he'd just killed. He, too, waited for his target to emerge from the barn, but his mission was different.
  And in the barn, Zhenya, by the light of a flashlight, tried to extract his treasure.
  There it was, a boulder covered in gray moss, exuding a damp, graveyard smell. In the flickering light of the flashlight, it created an eerie impression.
  The boy suddenly had the distinct feeling that someone was standing behind him, looking at him. He turned sharply, but the dimly lit barn was empty. Only the moon shone through the window, and a draft gently rustled the straw on the floor.
  And Zhenya returned to his work. Here, in the hidden crevice...
  He remembered how he'd used a piece of iron he'd found in the barn to widen a gap between boulders, carefully inserted a wooden pencil case wrapped in rags, and then spent a long time camouflaging the hole with dirt and pebbles, adding clumps of moss. The moss had long since taken root and had firmly covered the gap, so that the two boulders looked like a single stone.
  Holding the flashlight in his left hand, the young man opened the folding knife with his teeth and, containing his impatience, began carefully scraping away the moss. The blade found a hole and slipped inside. A second later, the tip of a dirty rag appeared. The treasure was there.
  Zhenya tore off the rags, opened the box and again saw strange symbols on the withered parchment that he absolutely had to read.
  
   * German peasants (German)
  ** Good evening, Frau (German)
  
  Top secret
  June 22, 1947
  To the Chief of the Investigative Department of the USSR MGB, Major General of State Security A.G. Leonov
  Ivanov accepted.
  As part of Operation Baltic Guest, Agent Fellow Traveler (Senior Lieutenant M. Tyukalov) made contact with Subject Student and traveled with him to the Red Path collective farm.
  Since it was known that the "Student" intended to retrieve a certain object from the village, likely hidden in Franz Kuh's house, the entire estate was thoroughly searched after the interrogation and arrest of Franz and Monika Kuh. A wooden box containing a document, presumably an ancient manuscript, was discovered between two stones at the base of the barn. Following orders, the manuscript was photographed, returned to the box, and then hidden again in its hiding place. The hiding place was camouflaged so that the subject would not detect its opening.
  Franz and Monika Kuh were taken to Kaliningrad and are being held in the guardhouse.
  The officers conducting the search in the village were negligent in failing to discover an enemy agent who had arrived from Kaliningrad—presumably belonging to a network infiltrated into Germany during the war by the US Office of Strategic Services (now the Central Intelligence Group). He was discovered by "Poputchik," who had been following "Student" in the village. The enemy agent also followed "Student" and monitored him from the attic of the Kukhovs' house.
  Left without support and unaware of the enemy agent's intentions regarding the Student, the Fellow Traveler decided to eliminate him.
  The "Student," having discovered his hiding place, emerged from the Kukhovs' barn with a pencil case. He found neither the "Fellow Traveler" nor the enemy agent.
  In order not to arouse the suspicions of the "Student", the "Fellow Traveler" did not accompany him back and ordered the chairman of the collective farm, Nikiforov, to deliver the object to Kaliningrad in a collective farm vehicle under the pretext of a personal errand.
  "Fellow Traveler" characterizes the subject as someone who is goal-oriented, stubborn, and secretive beyond his years. His attitude toward the Soviet government and the Party is likely negative.
  In Kaliningrad, the object was received by employees of the Leningrad Region Directorate of the Ministry of State Security, who accompanied it by train to Leningrad.
  Major of the State Security Service Tamantsev.
  Right.
  Senior investigator of the investigative unit, State Security Captain Ivanov.
  
   Resolution of the Minister of State Security of the USSR
  Continue covert surveillance of "Student," ensuring his admission to graduate school and specialization in ancient America. Transfer the Kukh family to the Lubyanka Internal Prison. Reprimand those officers of the Kaliningrad Regional Directorate and the head of the directorate, Colonel Rudakov, who overlooked the enemy agent. Continue efforts to uncover the enemy's agent network in the region. Report on progress.
  Colonel General of the State Security Service Abakumov.
   5
  
  Evgeny Kromlekh. USSR. Krasnoyarsk Krai. Evenki National Okrug. Uchami village. June 21, 1950.
  A tiny village on the banks of a godforsaken tributary of the Lower Tunguska. All around are taiga-covered hills. A dozen or so darkened wooden huts, fifty tents. Boats on the river. And reindeer everywhere.
  Getting here was possible via the taiga, by river, and by air. The ethnographers reached Uchami via a third route—by helicopter.
  Evgeny had the chance to visit many places where Professor Stolyarov dragged him for fieldwork. The study of shamanism required a wide geographical scope. They traversed the mosquito-infested forests that covered the foothills of the Altai Mountains and sailed along Yakut rivers past cliffs resembling fantastical castle ruins. They crossed the Khakassian steppes, where the ghostly gazes of stone figures from burial mounds accompanied them.
  And now the professor and his student sat in the tent behind the darkened hut, watching as Fyodor Kopenkin, a ninth-generation shaman, prepared for his shamanic ritual. He wore a lombolon caftan made of bearskin, trimmed with long fringe and hung with straps and metal pendants representing all manner of spirits. There were so many pendants that they resembled a suit of chainmail. And the old man himself, in his caftan, resembled a huge, disheveled bird. Or an ancient feathered lizard.
  “It must be hard for him,” thought Evgeny, sitting quietly on a pile of skins.
  Fedka wore an avun hat, also with thick fringe that fell over his face. A shaman must not look at this world while working.
  The old man quickly turned the ungtuvun drum over the fire burning in the middle of the tent - his main weapon in the spirit world, both shield and sword, and the receptacle of his soul.
  The old woman, who was constantly smoking a pipe with something pungent in it, threw herbs and roots into the fire, from which an intoxicating smoke spread throughout the tent, mixing with the smells of old tanned leather and dampness.
  Meanwhile, a young man, the shaman's son, was laying out wooden figurines of guardian spirits in the form of animals that he had taken out of the chest.
  It seemed that all the "safety precautions" had been met, and it was time for the performance to begin. For Professor Stolyarov, it was just that—a performance, for which the shaman—a wily yet somehow blissful little old man—received three bottles of vodka and ten packs of Kazbek cigarettes. Before all this, he had always been a keen lover.
  But Yevgeny himself knew it wasn't about bribes. At first, Fyodor flatly refused to perform the ritual in front of the luch—the Russians. Perhaps he mistook them for the district authorities, who disapproved of his calling. Or perhaps it was something else entirely.
  But while arguing with Stolyarov in the shabby hut, he suddenly noticed Evgeny, standing modestly to the side. After staring at him piercingly for a few seconds with even narrower slits under his drooping brows, the shaman suddenly abandoned his endless, "No, absolutely not, it's a sin, the foreman has strictly forbidden it," and asked sharply:
  — Will the little one be with you?
  Without waiting for an answer, he circled him, never taking his eyes off Zhenya. Before, Fedka had given the impression of a decrepit old man with a shuffling gait. But now his movements took on an almost feline grace. He circled the somewhat timid boy like an eagle over its prey. Suddenly, taking a gliding step, he found himself almost right next to Kromlech, reached out, and lightly felt the dent on the young man's forehead. Evgeny winced, feeling the ghostly dryness of his fingers.
  "No, no, no," the shaman suddenly began to wail, pulling his hand back. "I've never seen anything like this... It doesn't happen."
  He suddenly froze, as if disconnected from the world. Everyone in the hut fell silent, too, even Stolyarov, who was clearly trying to say something but couldn't bring himself to do so.
  Just as suddenly, the old man came to. Without looking at Zhenya anymore, he turned and walked out into the yard, throwing out:
  — I will speak words to the spirits.
  "What was that?" Stolyarov asked in surprise.
  Zhenya had no idea, but it was as if someone’s cold fingers touched his heart.
  That evening, Stolyarov went to the old man for a serious conversation. He returned to the village reading room, where the expedition was located, somewhat confused.
  "The old man has completely lost his mind," he said, sitting down on a chair and lighting a cigarette. "I asked him what kind of show he was putting on around you, and he kept saying, 'Nengo, nengo.'"
  "I think that means 'bad omen'?" Evgeny recalled.
  "Not exactly," the professor replied, taking a deep drag. "It's when a person finds themselves between this world and the next, buni. A sort of... gap between worlds, or something... a membrane between life and death. For example, getting lost in the taiga is nengo. For an Evenk, getting lost means dangerously falling ill, like for us suddenly forgetting how to speak. Or if you meet a ghost—that's also nengo... It says you're mugdy."
  — A ghost? Whose?
  - He says: "He's his own man"...
  Icy fingers touched Evgeny's heart again.
  "However, he agrees to perform shamanism for us," Stolyarov concluded, crushing a cigarette in an empty tin can. "And that's what we need."
  ...Watching the shaman's actions in the tent, Evgeny placed a wrinkled piece of the one the old man had given him in his mouth. It was his second piece, and there were three in total.
  “Chew and swallow before I go to the spirits,” Fyodor ordered.
  But he didn’t give Stolyarov anything.
  "Zhenya, don't," he said quietly to his student. "These are fly agarics, the reaction could be anything."
  Zhenya remained silent, and when the old man began to prepare for the shamanic ritual, he chewed the first piece.
  For a long time, he felt absolutely no changes in consciousness and decided the mushrooms hadn't had any effect on him. Or maybe there weren't enough of them—the shaman himself had chewed a whole handful before donning the lombolon.
  The old man had already begun his ritual. At first, the drum beats were sparse, and their sound was muffled. The sparse jingling of the plaques sewn onto the lombolon accompanied it. The old man, meanwhile, muttered a chant in Evenki under his breath. Evgeny understood every word, but he grasped the general meaning.
  "Into the sky, into the sky, smoke from the tent! Smoke and steam push the sky into the heavenly river. The soul rises to the heavenly river, to the starry river, the ski track of the bear Mangi, following his she-bear Heglen! The soul rises to the heavenly serpent Dyabdar!"
  The shaman's son sat next to him, periodically tapping the rim of his drum with a wooden stick for some reason. The old woman was completely focused on the fire. The rest of the people—besides the ethnographers, there were several women and a couple of children—sat very still, their eyes glued to the shaman. Stolyarov, too, was silent, his eyes devouring the action.
  Something strange was happening to Zhenya. At first, he felt an incredible upliftment. It was as if his vision became brighter and clearer—he could notice everything that was happening down to the smallest detail. He was intoxicated by unfamiliar smells, delighted by the reflections of fire on faces, and captivated by the shaman's monotonous chant, gradually fading into a mournful, modulatory howl.
  The dark tent began to seem like a cave in which, illuminated by fiery reflections, ancient people would now begin some kind of performance. And he found it all incredibly pleasing.
  Then the miracles began. First, something began to rise from the fire where the old woman had tossed another offering. It was made of fire, but it was clearly a squat, living creature. Two shiny black embers in the intertwined strands of flame were eyes that leisurely surveyed everything and then fixed their gaze on Zhenya.
  He, however, did not attach much importance to this, listening to the shaman’s singing, which became more and more bizarre.
  "Oh, fire, there's a terrible ray here. It flies up, to the starry river, the ray flies to the sun bear Mangi, to mother Cholbon, who sings from the sky at dawn. It sees Mangi, it sees Cholbon, but it flies to Kholban, to the red star. Oh, oh, oh, what will happen!"
  For some reason, Zhenya took offense at the old sorcerer, thinking he was mocking him. But then his attention was again distracted by something far more astonishing than the creature on fire and the shaman's mutterings.
  Two very attractive Evenki girls emerged from the darkness. So beautiful, in fact, that the young man was taken aback by their exotic faces and slender figures, their seductive curves revealed by their white zipuns. They wore elegant beaded elden hats. For some reason, they were oddly large for their heads, and Zhenya thought he saw something familiar in the embroidery. But he quickly forgot about it.
  The girls smiled playfully and whispered among themselves, and the guy stared at them blankly. He was never at a loss with girls, but now a kind of numbness descended upon him. He could only sit motionless and blink.
  And the girls suddenly began dancing in front of him. Their smiles became openly alluring, their movements lustful. Finally, one approached Zhenya and wrapped her arms around his neck. The second was already stroking his chest, moving lower.
  Zhenya was overcome with a lustful obsession. He tensed up, reaching out to grab both girls at once. But instead of firm female bodies, his fingers entered something damp and crumbling.
  All the smells were suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful mushroom scent – as if a bucket had been dumped right in front of his nose...
  "Fly agarics!" Zhenya cried out hoarsely, realizing why the red and white speckled pattern of the girls' hats seemed so familiar to him.
  He was passionately hugging two huge writhing fly agarics!
  They seemed not to notice that the young man had seen through their disguise and continued to pretend to be girls.
  "Beautiful deer, beautiful. Deer, take a knife and kill everyone here," he heard a passionate whisper.
  “Kill them all, little deer, and then yourself, we’ll have a laugh,” the second creature repeated.
  Evgeniy was overcome with wild terror; he began to thrash his whole body, trying to get out from under the monstrous mushrooms.
  "Come on, you fly agaric people, get away. Get away, I say!" the shaman's voice was heard, becoming loud and clear. "Leave the boy alone, he's not for you!"
  The whispers of the seductive creatures were broken by the now-resonant drumbeats, and the fly agarics recoiled from the young man, once again assuming the form of maidens. But Zhenya no longer found them attractive.
  Gradually they somehow quietly disappeared into the gloom of the tent.
  The young man had already forgotten them, too. A new wave of rapture swept over him. It was the same as his night visions—a maddening interweaving of unseen colors, flowing into one another, through which he raced at a mad, unnatural speed. Yet he knew he was truly at peace, and from a distance, he saw a separate being, incomprehensibly also him, the Cromlech, carrying him away to unknown distances.
  The waves intertwined into a bundle of multi-colored light, and the nameless creature was already rushing along the endless shimmering tunnel.
  The seemingly eternal flight ended abruptly. Movement ceased, and impenetrable darkness descended. To the static, observing Cromlech, it also seemed eternal.
  Until a lump of light flew into her from somewhere.
  It began to shine before the second being of Cromlech, and he realized that it continued to rush into infinity, but was not aware of it in the darkness.
  Meanwhile, the ball of light began to stretch and darken, without losing its radiant essence. Until it turned into a crimson-orange blob, pulsating with an internal fire, spilled in the center of utter darkness.
  "Doors!" a dazzling guess flashed across the static Cromlech.
  “Membrane,” responded a clear voice, vaguely familiar to Evgeny.
  The crimson spot pulsed so strongly that Evgeny began to think that a sound was coming from it.
  Indeed, that's exactly how it was. Sound waves crashed down on the Cromlech with each new pulse.
  — Boom! Boom! Boom!
  Gradually, Zhenya realized that the stain was a humming drum. The bifurcated creature reunited and returned to the tent.
  "Nengo!" the shaman's cry greeted Kromlech. "Nengo, nengo!"
  It seemed as if the sounds of the drum filled the whole world.
  "Red Star Kholban, let the boy go!" the shaman began to wail. "Oh, Seveki-god, Omian-mama, carry his soul on the deer to our world! Take his soul back through the nengo, it was lost in the heavenly river, in the serpent Dyabdar!"
  The shaman's plea grew increasingly expressive, almost hysterical. He pounded the drum so fast that the sound became a prolonged hum. The jingling of the pendants also became a continuous roar. The words of the spell were no longer understandable; the shaman was shouting nonsense in an ever-higher tone.
  Finally, he threw down the drum and mallet, which his son immediately snatched up, and jumped to his feet. The boy continued beating the drum, and a sharp knife appeared out of nowhere in the shaman's hand.
  "I give you blood, feathered serpent Dyabdar, who created the earth in battle, I give you blood, mammoth Seli, who created the earth in battle!" the old man cried.
  With each cry, he drove the blade deep into his stomach.
  A numb Evgeny saw blood pouring copiously from beneath his caftan. But the shaman didn't stop—he continued to tear his own body with the knife.
  "Here is my blood, my blood has been spilled! Gods and spirits, carry this lost soul home through the Nengo. Carry her along the heavenly river! Give her body, take her blood. Take her blood, feathered serpent! Blood! Blood!"
  He dropped the knife and began to collect the blood flowing from his palms. It spilled down his hands and onto the floor, but the shaman nevertheless gathered something into his hand, raised it to his face, and drank it.
  The entire front of his clothes was soaked, and a puddle was spreading across the floor. He should have fallen long ago and lost his grip, but he continued to stand, dancing, "straining" the fluid from his body, licking his bloody fingers.
  The people in the tent seemed to have retreated beyond the boundaries of consciousness. Evgeny was completely unaware of their presence. The sound was generated by itself and came from somewhere outside. Here, there were only Evgeny and the bleeding, mad shaman.
  And then he suddenly raised his head restlessly. The fringe covering his face moved with his uneven breathing, as if alive.
  Oddly enough, Kromlech no longer saw the blood on his caftan, and the puddle on the floor had vanished. The thought flashed through his mind and then vanished without a trace.
  "Hey, who's there?" the shaman cried out, shaking his head from side to side like a worried raven. "Who are you? Why are you here? Hey, hey, hey, why did you come? What do you want?"
  Evgeny didn’t see anyone, but he also felt some alien presence and turned cold again.
  "I'll find you, foreign shaman!" Fyodor suddenly cried out in terror and did the unthinkable: he jumped up on the spot, rose vertically upward, and disappeared into the tent's smoke hole.
  Before this, Zhenya thought that the shaman flared up, turning into a blinding ball of light.
  The tent disappeared, and complete darkness returned, in which the young man began to ponder the phenomenon he had witnessed. However, the situation changed again.
  A bubble of light appeared above - Zhenya saw how it seeped into the smoke hole of the newly appeared plague.
  The young man's gaze seemed to blur, but then his vision returned, and he realized that the amorphous bubble of light was actually an elongated, glowing egg, larger than a man standing upright. Upon closer inspection, it turned out the egg was composed of glowing filaments, resembling a dazzling web. It was also spinning continuously, with undulating prominences emanating from it.
  The egg floated smoothly before Evgeny, and he realized it wasn't an egg at all, but a man of average height. Kromlech thought it was Fyodor, but no, it was someone else—though there was something vaguely reminiscent of a shaman. An angular, high-cheekboned face, sharply shining eyes with a subtle epicanthal fold, dark skin. Mongoloid. Or perhaps Native American... Yes, Native American, most likely.
  He wasn't young. He didn't look like a decrepit old man, but he was clearly quite old.
  He was dressed, however, quite differently from the shaman—no lombolone. Baggy, worn canvas pants, an old checkered shirt, a wide-brimmed straw hat...
  "Who are you?" Evgeny asked, unexpectedly sternly. Just a moment ago, he was sure he couldn't utter a word.
  But the words he spoke weren't quite... not just sound. Evgeny was surprised to see them emerge from him like the shimmering cloud of steam on which his question was written, and hang in the air.
  "Juan Matus, at your service," the man replied, bowing slightly. "You may call me don Juan."
  His words also came out in a cloud, but they were written in Spanish - Cromlech already knew this language almost like a native.
  "Where are you from?" the young man continued his interrogation in Spanish, no longer paying attention to the fact that they were conversing like comic book characters.
  The strange old man laughed gutturally, loudly slapping his thigh with his palm.
  “He’s a tough guy, it turns out,” the old man remarked to the side with cheerful surprise, as if someone was standing behind his left shoulder.
  "I'm from afar," he now addressed Evgeny. "My esteemed colleague has made room for me here. For now."
  - For what?
  - So that I can have time to talk to you.
  - About what?
  - Well, for example, to find out if you are scared.
  "I'm not scared," Evgeny replied, realizing that he really wasn't scared. Although he should have been.
  Don Juan took off his hat, rubbed his temples, put it back on and shook his head, looking at Zhenya with some surprise.
  “Well, well,” he chuckled and burst into booming laughter again.
  Evgeny briefly noticed that everyone in the tent was frozen—not just the people, even the fire and smoke. But the young man simply noted this as another fact.
  Having finished laughing, Don Juan sank easily to the floor without using his hands. He looked at Evgeny with amused curiosity.
  "You don't understand anything," he remarked. "But you're not afraid of anything."
  His words sparkled and shimmered before Zhenya’s nose.
  “How do you know?” he asked.
  "I'm smoking you," don Juan replied calmly. "I'm sitting very, very far from here in the chaparral thickets, in a place of power, and I'm smoking. And I see."
  “Where is it far?” asked the young man.
  "It doesn't matter," the old man waved his hand. "Well, in Sonora... in Mexico."
  Kromlech nodded; he had expected something like this.
  Suddenly the Indian looked at him straight and hard.
  "You don't understand anything at all," he repeated. "But you take everything for granted."
  Evgeny wanted to shrug his shoulders, but his body still didn’t obey him well.
  — I'm hallucinating. Fly agarics...
  Don Juan shook his head.
  "No, the mushroom of power only nudged you onto the path. Like the smoke I'm inhaling now. But you stopped the world yourself."
  "What do you mean, 'stopped the world'?" Evgeny asked.
  The Indian chuckled.
  "Well, not exactly stopped for real. In a dream. Got it? It's much easier in a dream. And you're good at dreaming..."
  - So, we are in a dream?
  Don Juan nodded.
  "In mine or in yours?" Cromlech continued to pester.
  The old man smiled again.
  "What difference does it make? I don't know myself. The important thing is that we're sitting here and talking, even though there are thousands of kilometers between us."
  For some reason, a pair of cabbage butterflies began to circle around his words written in the air, desperately fluttering their pale wings.
  "Why are we talking?" asked Evgeny.
  Don Juan's face, once cheerful and somewhat naive, instantly became coldly focused. His gaze literally jolted Zhenya.
  "I'm curious," he said slowly, somewhat detachedly. "I've sensed you for a long time, many years, but I couldn't track you down."
  - How so?
  — I am a hunter. I stalk. You are my prey.
  Evgeny should have been scared at this point, but he wasn't. And the Indian continued.
  — I thought you were a spirit. Or some other creature.
  - Which?
  "There are many. It doesn't matter. But you are a person who can become a seer. If you teach them to see."
  — What does seeing mean?
  — A warrior who has walked the path. Like me. Or like the one who was here.
  — Shaman?
  "I told you—I'm a hunter. And I'm a warrior. And I'm a seer. And you've already embarked on the warrior's path—on your own, without the help of a benefactor. Which is quite rare, actually. But in your case, that's not the most important thing."
  - And what?
  Without rising, the old man touched the young man's chest. It seemed to him that the Indian's arm stretched out in a fantastical manner.
  - Now - here is this sign.
  Don Juan's finger touched the cross on Zhenya's chest. Kromlech considered himself an atheist and hadn't attended church since childhood. But his mother had placed the cross on him, and he refused to take it off, even after several Komsomol campaigns. He was so stubborn that the activists stopped pressuring him and left him alone. However, it's more likely that the secret patronage of the Big House, of which Yevgeny was still unaware, played a role.
  “My path of knowledge has been distorted by people with this sign,” don Juan said.
  His voice, which until now had a ringing quality like a trickle of water, or a clear, clicking sound like an abacus, now began to creak, becoming unpleasant and drawn-out. It sounded like the crunch of rotten tooth roots being torn from gums.
  The cloud on which his words were written turned a deep crimson.
  "These people interrupted my tradition of knowledge," the Indian's voice was indifferent, but Evgeny knew in his gut that he was very angry. "They exterminated the seers of that time, who considered themselves so powerful that they feared no one."
  His words burned in the air like a dark flame.
  "If they were so powerful, how were they exterminated?" the question begged itself.
  "Magic had almost no effect on the people of the cross. They lived in a different reality," the Indian replied.
  "Are you talking about the conquistadors?" Evgeny clarified.
  Don Juan shook his head.
  "Forget what you were taught. What you write about that time in your books is not at all what really happened."
  "So, you know better?" Evgeny made another open comment: in this situation, he was capable of irony.
  But she didn't impress the Indian.
  "Of course," he shrugged. "I'm a Toltec myself, and I've met the ancient seers."
  The cromlech couldn't find a response. Well, maybe he could express surprise that the Indian claimed to belong specifically to the Toltec civilization. And not the Mixtecs, Zapotecs, or Aztecs. Or even the Mayans, for that matter... What difference does it make, really? Let him be whoever he wants; he's still a fly-agaric hallucination!
  But don Juan seemed to see his thoughts.
  "You don't understand. To say that I'm a Toltec is like saying that you... who are you?"
  He looked intently at Eugene.
  "Well, yes, 'history student.' That's who you are in the world. And the Toltecs are the line of seers to which I belong. And you will belong too. However, by blood, I am still a descendant of those Toltecs you were thinking of."
  "What do you mean, 'I will belong to you'?" Evgeny asked curiously.
  “When you become my disciple and call me a benefactor,” don Juan said, smiling softly.
  The words flying out of his mouth sparkled enticingly again.
  "Why?" Evgeny was genuinely curious.
  "Because you know it's right," don Juan said with conviction. "And because the ability to see, which you were born with, was spurred on by a blow you received as a child. It was that very point of no return, at which the world grabbed you and dragged you along the path predestined for you."
  Evgeny himself always felt something similar, but here he became stubborn.
  — The world has nothing to do with it!
  "And what's more, what's more," the Indian chuckled. "He set you on a path, and you realized that this path has a heart."
  - What, what?
  "Every path is just one of thousands," don Juan explained. "But a warrior chooses only the path with heart. And you are a warrior. Or rather, you can become one."
  “Let’s assume I’ve already chosen my path,” Cromlech remarked.
  Don Juan shook his head.
  "Are you talking about the records of my ancestors that you wish to read?" he asked with some disdain. "They are completely unimportant. Knowledge cannot be written down. Recorded knowledge turns into its opposite. Everything you want to know about those people, I will tell you. Or they themselves..."
  For some time now, the young man had sensed something... a double meaning behind the Indian sorcerer's words. Even the flickering of his phrases in the air began to seem cunning and ambiguous.
  "What do you know about my path?" Zhenya asked sharply, and felt that he was truly offended.
  The Indian's booming laughter began to irritate him. However, this time Don Juan only chuckled.
  "Yes, everything," he replied. "I told you I smoke you. And that means all your secrets are mine."
  He looked slyly at the young man.
  — Do you think your secret is such a secret?
  "What are you talking about?" Zhenya became alarmed.
  - Yes, about that scroll that the whites stole from the dead city, and you stole from them.
  A vision of a folded scroll covered with intricate symbols appeared in the air before them.
  “This is a hallucination, he’s not really there,” Evgeny reassured himself.
  No one was supposed to know about the von der Goltz Code. No one in this world.
   6
  
  Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin. USSR. Kuntsevo District, Moscow Region. Nearby Dacha. March 5, 1947.
  The Poles had worn out their master. Their delegation sat in his Kremlin office for two hours, tediously and obsequiously trying to persuade him to reduce the coal supply at the "special price"—a disguised contribution paid in coal "sold" to the USSR for pennies. The master himself had long since decided to reduce this levy on the People's Republic of Poland by half, but he feigned resistance, and at one point even began casting angry glances at the petitioners, twitching his mustache slightly. This sent them into a fit of terror, but they bravely continued their plaintive song, even earning his implicit approval.
  He disliked the Poles. For a long time, perhaps since the war of 1920. The bitterness of defeat continued to gnaw at him, though he blamed it on his political opponents. In 1939, he got even with Poland by dividing it with the psychotic Hitler, but the sense of humiliation was no less stinging. Humiliation was the worst thing that could happen to him. At least, that's what he thought.
  However, the master liked to believe that personal emotions had little influence on his political decisions. He tried to cultivate pragmatism and an objective view of the situation, and sincerely believed he had succeeded. And now, with Poland at his feet and delegations from the new Polish government arriving in Moscow begging for favors, the master dealt with them with his usual objective cruelty, keeping in mind, above all, the benefits of his state. Which was himself, and that was unconditionally implied.
  He pretended to soften under the pressure of arguments and finally gave the go-ahead. The Poles left fully convinced they had accomplished a great deed for their country. Even though they were forced to give up the lion's share of the German reparations due to the USSR.
  Recalling this now, stretched out on the comfortable sofa, the owner chuckled contentedly. He loved it when the person he had fooled and humiliated was happy about it. This sometimes even spiced his stern and dull outlook on things with a hint of mischievous amusement.
  "And that... namesake... Cyrankiewicz, a smart guy, I should keep pushing him," thought the owner, reaching for the pack of cigarettes and matches lying on the nightstand. Doctors had recently forbidden him from smoking a pipe, though he occasionally broke the ban. But now he was too tired to fill and light his most famous attribute.
  "I should work less. Otherwise, I won't last ten years," he thought, watching the majestic plumes of smoke drifting toward the dimly lit ceiling.
  The shift at the Kremlin ended at two in the morning. After the Poles, he let Charkviani, Lavrentiy's successor in the Georgian party organization, into his office for ten minutes. He had been patiently languishing in the reception room all day. The matter was a simple matter and resolved immediately. Besides, the boss had no time to deal with Georgia right now. Order had long been needed there, not in a rush, but with feeling and deliberation.
  He returned to the dacha around two and, as usual, spent a few more hours working on paperwork, invigorating himself with strong tea he brewed himself. Then he wrote down what he wanted for breakfast, pressed the button for the servants, and ordered a bed made in the small dining room.
  After the cigarette, he felt thirsty. He remembered with annoyance that he'd forgotten to put the bottle of Borjomi on the nightstand again—it was left on the large table, just out of reach. And he really didn't want to get up...
  The master's mortal fatigue was gradually turning into a sense of unease. In the reddish light of the shaded table lamp, the usually cozy dining room began to seem a mysterious and ominous place. What had delighted his eyes during the day—the geometrically straight lines, the soothing monotony of the Karelian birch paneling, the matte marble of the fireplace—took on a hidden gloom in the semi-darkness. It was as if he were lying in a luxurious crypt.
  The owner knew he was completely alone in this vast section of the dacha—a long corridor with large windows overlooking other rooms separated him from the staff quarters. Of course, guards were stationed along the perimeter of the house, and if he were to step out onto the veranda now, he would see the officers' backs through the glass, peering intently and listening into the park's silence.
  But here he was alone. It both excited and terrified him. He loved solitude, but fear never left him. If only the millions of people for whom he was a demigod knew how piteously his heart trembled at the mysterious sounds of the night... If only they knew that this titan and hero often felt like a frightened child in a dark cave with lurking monsters...
  His throat was completely dry, his chest tight. The bottle of water glimmered enticingly a meter away, but he lacked the strength to stand. He felt as if if he crawled out from under the blanket and rose to his feet, the horror lurking in ambush would instantly seize him and carry him off to who knows where.
  He only managed to pull his healthy right arm out from under the blanket (most of the world didn't even know he was crippled) and turn off the lamp. This didn't make him feel any calmer. The reflections on the furniture and walls became even more mysterious, the sounds of the night more menacing.
  However, the tightness in my chest began to slowly ease, and my consciousness increasingly slipped into the colorful nonsense that preceded real dreams.
  And in this half-slumber, something suddenly jolted him. It was as if a gust of icy wind had swept through the room. The host opened his eyes abruptly. In the flickering light of the park lanterns, he saw a dark figure emerging from the window.
  He didn't let out a wild scream only because his throat was constricted with terror. Assassination attempts were his constant nightmare. And the fact that no one who wanted him dead had yet managed to kill him meant, according to his master's capricious logic, that someone else would soon be able to.
  It wasn't even pain or death that terrified him to the point of insanity, but the helplessness he felt in the face of his circumstances. Falling and lying there, unable to rise, whimpering in terror in a pool of blood and urine—he didn't even want to think about it. The thought that someone could take his titanic self and, in the blink of an eye, turn it into a useless pile of vile flesh—that thought was a true and constant nightmare, one that, in fact, defined his entire behavior.
  For a moment, the owner was overcome with the wild hope that the dark figure was actually himself. He must have gotten up without noticing and was now looking at his reflection in the mirror. But then he remembered that he had forbidden mirrors at the dacha—he hated them.
  A new wave of terror washed over him. His frozen gaze locked on the figure blocking the table with the coveted bottle of water. Thoughts flashed through his head and then vanished without a trace, chaotic thoughts—that he should have kept the gun under his pillow, that the call button for security was now completely out of reach, and why he hadn't ordered her to be taken to the nightstand, that he should jump up and defend himself, but he could never do that...
  Should I pray? Or is it too late?..
  How thirsty I am!
  Adrenaline sharpened his vision, and details began to emerge from the haze. An old man... Well, no. Just a middle-aged man. Asian, I think... definitely not European. Baggy pants and a plaid shirt, a straw hat on his head.
  Who is this, for God's sake?!
  "Don't try to get up," a calm, even slightly lifeless voice sounded as if it were right in the owner's head. "You're sleeping."
  Perhaps, however, the alien didn't utter a word at all—they simply appeared before the owner in the air. And written in Georgian, at that.
  "Who are you?" The owner wasn't sure he'd said it himself. Nevertheless, the question hovered in the air.
  — Juan Matus, at your service. I am often called Don Juan.
  "Am I sleeping?" The situation was becoming clearer, and this cheered the owner up a little.
  The alien nodded.
  - You're sleeping. And I'm smoking you.
  His words continued to float before the owner in Georgian letters.
  "What does this mean?" As often happened in moments of genuine danger, the master's fear receded. His thoughts became clearer—as clear as possible in such a situation.
  The stranger seemed a little puzzled to the owner. He took off his hat and rubbed his temple.
  "Don Jose, it's rather difficult for me to explain this to you," the chieftain automatically noted that the stranger had Hispanicized his name. "But keep in mind—the person you see in your dream is very much alive and exists simultaneously with you."
  “I don’t understand,” the owner said with his usual emphasis.
  He wanted to reach for a cigarette, but realized he couldn't move. And to hell with the cigarette—his mouth was completely dry. He even seemed to hear the cheerful murmur of a mountain stream. He desperately wanted to dunk his head in it.
  Don Juan nodded.
  "Don Jose," he said gravely, "I could explain the situation to you all night. But what's the point? We have urgent business to attend to, and my presence here is, unfortunately, limited."
  "Do you want to buy my soul?" the owner suddenly asked.
  Don Juan hit himself on the thigh with his hat and laughed loudly.
  "You shouldn't have become a padre, Don Jose," he said cheerfully, after laughing. "I assure you, I have no connection with the creatures of your fantasies. And as for your so-called soul..."
  He waved his hand and laughed again.
  The owner chuckled skeptically.
  "Let's say you're not after me. Although, who else would this... 'creature' come to... Oh well. Don Juan, then? And what do you want from me, don Juan?"
  "Now that's a conversation between two reasonable people," the alien said, smiling broadly. "The thing is, I'm looking for a petty tyrant. And you are a petty tyrant."
  Surprise and even some resentment stirred in the owner’s soul.
  “On the contrary, I am a very big tyrant,” he said weightily and instructively.
  "For your subjects, certainly," don Juan replied, this time seriously. "But compared to the true Tyrant, whom we call the Eagle, men like you are mere pinches tyranos. And I represent men who have never been and never will be your subjects."
  "And who then?" The owner realized that in this situation it would be foolish to be offended.
  — Seers.
  "Wizards, or what?" the owner caught on immediately. "Lavrenty deals with them. He's doing well for now. That is, he used to. Now this... Abakumov. But he's worse. I'll shoot him soon."
  “And I was just talking about the execution,” don Juan quickly picked up.
  - Abakumova?
  - No, absolutely not, do whatever you want with this... One young man. His name is Eugenio.
  - Evgeny?
  - Yes. Cromlech.
  The owner vaguely recalled the name, which had flashed in some reports. His memory was still excellent.
  “He is one of the people who were supposed to help you get rid of the legacy of your teachers,” the alien reminded.
  "Operation Tackstag," the host said. "Yes, he's among those I wanted to advance in science, to create the necessary choir. No longer necessary. I'm a classic Marxist myself now; whatever I say, it will be."
  “And I believe,” don Juan said ingratiatingly, “that you will liquidate this unnecessary choir.”
  "Of course," the owner said indifferently. "Why would I want to bother with them?"
  - You shouldn't do this.
  - Why else?
  - This boy is very important.
  — For whom then?
  — Including for you. And very important for us.
  The sorcerer's last words filled the air with a heavy crimson.
  "You mean, those who see?" the owner clarified.
  "Exactly," don Juan nodded. "He must become one of us. In a little while."
  "Tell me, don Juan, what does all this have to do with me?" the host asked ironically.
  He had already fully adapted to the situation—his fortunate quality, in fact, was what made him who he was. Usually, while those around him were still experiencing the bygone realities of the past, he was already existing in the new environment and acting accordingly, ahead of everyone else. He was sleeping and conversing with a supernatural being—this was a current reality that needed to be controlled.
  "I have penetrated you and spoken to you—despite the thousands of kilometers separating us and all your guards," don Juan said. "Doesn't that convince you of the seriousness of the situation?"
  It was said in a measured and ominous tone. The letters in front of the master loomed dark and bleak. Fear gripped him again, but he forced himself to think logically.
  - But what can you do to me if, as you yourself said, you are thousands of kilometers away?
  Don Juan put his hat back on and laughed gutturally.
  "I find it extremely interesting to talk to you, Don Jose. It's a pity you're not a seer and never will be," he said, after laughing.
  And then he became serious again.
  "You're right, I can't harm you right now. It's not because of the distance, but it's true nonetheless. In a few years... yes, in six years..."
  “What will happen in six years?” the owner asked, but don Juan avoided answering, saying:
  - However, right now I can interest you.
  “Go on,” the owner said evenly.
  Negotiations, bargaining, diplomacy – everything as usual...
  "This boy..." don Juan paused, as if choosing his words, "he will do one very important thing—he will read the documents written by my distant ancestors. And believe me, no one else can do this."
  "Why should I believe that?" the owner inquired.
  Don Juan shrugged slightly.
  "But you believe it," he said, as if stating a fact. And the owner realized he was right.
  "However, reading these manuscripts is not the main thing," don Juan continued. "I cannot say for sure, but he will do something that could change the world."
  "And you're asking me to leave him alone?" the owner asked sarcastically.
  “You and your comrades did the same thing – you turned the world upside down,” the sorcerer answered in the same tone.
  "So, young Cromlech will start a revolution?" the owner clarified.
  "Much more—it will change the structure of the world. And this will entail many changes. For example, the United States may cease to exist..."
  The owner's eyes sparkled, but he shrugged his shoulders.
  "I can't say I understand," he remarked. "But in any case, if I believe you, there is great danger in this young man."
  "You're a reasonable man, Don José, and you should understand that he will become an important figure for your country no matter what. There's no point in destroying something that could bring great good in the future."
  "Okay," the owner agreed. "But how do you know all this? I understand—you're a sorcerer, a demon, or something like that... But I'd like to have some real grounds for my decision."
  — Doesn't my presence here convince you that I possess powers beyond those of an ordinary man?
  “And yet,” the owner insisted, “I would like to know how you... seers intend to use this young man.”
  "I myself don't know the exact nature of his deed," the Indian admitted. "But I'm certain that only he can correct the distortion inflicted on my tradition by the Spanish invasion. I can't say more."
  - And how are you going to convince me if you yourself are not well informed?
  Don Juan suddenly, for no apparent reason, burst into thunderous laughter again. And—disappeared.
  The owner found himself next to a babbling stream near his native Gori and with a cry of joy plunged his head into it, completely forgetting about the night visitor.
  But when he woke up—as usual, closer to noon—he remembered don Juan perfectly. Moreover, he clearly realized it hadn't been a bizarre dream at all. At least, not exactly a dream.
  The first thing he did was crawl out from under the blanket, step barefoot to the table, grab a bottle of Borjomi and drink directly from the neck.
  My thoughts became clearer.
  He went into the bathroom, came out in a robe, turned on the stove, boiled the kettle and made tea.
  He sat, sipping and looking at the floor.
  He reached for a cigarette, but then chuckled, stood up, walked to the nightstand, and pulled out the first pipe he found from his extensive collection. He spent a long time filling it with tobacco extracted from a crumbled cigar. He lit it and inhaled with pleasure. Transparent wisps of fragrant smoke drifted across the room.
  The owner thought.
  His atheism was always quite relative. More than once in his life, he encountered things inexplicable from the standpoint of materialism, which for him was just another tool of dominance.
  So he had no doubt that Satan or one of his subordinates had visited him that night. What was wrong? The master was certain he had deceived God Himself. Why not now test his strength against His adversary? "Don José" had plenty of self-confidence.
  Naturally, he didn't let the insolent witcher persuade him. His first thought was to arrest the boy and his entire family. But as the tobacco in his pipe smoldered, the master grew increasingly curious. If the demon was right, the boy would become a great scholar. And that would be good for the country, and therefore for its master. On the other hand, for now, the boy seemed completely harmless.
  And then there were the States. They had been increasingly irritating the owner lately. And he foresaw that things would get even worse with them.
  "A strait named after Comrade Stalin between Canada and Mexico, you say?" he thought. "Nonsense, of course, but pleasant... Perhaps I should let him run around for now. And I'll keep a close eye on him. Look at him, a pinches tyrannos... Don Juan... Don hu..."
  The owner knocked the receiver into the ashtray and pressed the call button.
  "Breakfast," he ordered the duty officer, who appeared out of nowhere. "And call Lavrenty... No, call Abakumov. Yes, right here. And quickly."
  He jumped up from his chair cheerfully. He had to work.
  7
  
  Fyodor Kopenkin. USSR. Krasnoyarsk Krai. Evenki National Okrug. Podkamennaya Tunguska River area. November 1, 1950.
  Fyodor was twelve when the serpent Dyabdar came from the heavens. Later, the elders spoke of iron birds sent from the upper world by the elder Agdy, the thunderstorm-maker. But Fyodor was there and saw everything. What thunderstorm...
  Agdy's grandfather sits in the sky and throws iron birds to the ground—that's true. But what Fyodor saw that day didn't come from the heavens—far, far beyond was the lair of the fiery serpent, which had streaked across the entire sky that June morning. Then came a blinding flash. A headwind arose, snapping centuries-old pines like matchsticks. People screamed, dogs howled, every animal in the taiga screamed. The earth trembled, as if dying from a vicious fever. And then came a terrible roar—as if the sky had split. The roar went on and on, and it seemed as if this blinding, deafening world would now endure forever.
  Young Fedka panicked and decided he was dying too. He'd never heard anything like it before. And he wouldn't hear anything like it for another ten years—until he found himself at the front, fighting the advancing Bolsheviks, as part of General Pepeliaev's corps. But even the cannonade couldn't compare to the roar that rang out on June 17, 1908, near the Dulgu Katenna River, known locally as the Podkamennaya Tunguska.
  The leading scientists who later came with expeditions called it the "Tunguska meteorite." But he, Fedka, knew better—it was the snake Dyabdar.
  Now, the old Fyodor sat not far from where he had been during the snake's visitation. Only now, winter was approaching, and the old shaman was truly dying.
  He had no doubt that he was killed by the same fiery serpent that had summoned him to the spirit world many years ago. For after that terrible June day, Fedka had been seized by the shamanic illness—an illness he had anxiously anticipated ever since he became self-aware. It had plagued eight generations of his ancestors, though none of them had called for it. However, if a person is destined to enter the nengo, he will. The spirits tormented him for many days, tearing him to pieces and gluing him back together. The mugdy besieged him, each demanding his attention. Finally, Fedka gave in, and the spirits dressed him in a lombolon and avun and gave him a drum. He became a shaman—outwardly the same Fedka, but internally he no longer felt human.
  Over the course of his life, he grew accustomed to communicating with the spirits of all three worlds, with the dead, and with rival shamans—nothing frightened or disturbed him. Until he saw a young ray in Uchami.
  That Dyabdar represents depths infinitely distant from the earth with its taiga, deer, river, people, and spirits was an incontrovertible fact for Fyodor Kopenkin. All the spirits shook with terror—as did the people—when the Great Serpent fell to the ground in great anger. And old Fyodor experienced a similar shock when, last summer, Dabdar's maw opened up on him from an ordinary Russian boy named Zhenka.
  He wanted to explain to his mentor what was going on, but he wouldn't have understood anyway. You'd have to be as visionary as Fedka to convey what he'd just discovered, through half-hints and, most importantly, through the chilling sense of the presence of cosmic forces. So he muttered something about mugdy and nengo to the professor, desperately aware that he was making a fool of himself.
  He couldn't help but perform the ritual then, even though he knew it would be the most difficult ritual of his life. No, he understood nothing then... Because that ritual proved fatal for him.
  At some point, the entire insane fate of the creature that sat in his tent, in the form of a boy with a disfigured forehead, appeared before him—stretched across time and space, intricately twisted in the depths of space. Fyodor himself no longer understood whether it was the boy before him or the divine Serpent, shining, merciless, infinitely powerful, lounging languidly across all three worlds.
  But the boy was there too. Somewhere in this menacing splendor, which the human mind could not comprehend, a frightened, lost soul languished and cried. And it was Fyodor's duty to save it from being engulfed by the iridescent radiance of the Celestial River, drawing it toward the red star Holbon. Fyodor sensed—no, already knew—that this radiance concealed a great darkness, lying in wait for the entire world to pounce and devour it, like a hungry lynx a hare.
  But the shaman couldn't find the boy's soul. He had already begun to spray his blood all over the place—it spread in strange rags, like deer blood in hot tea. However, it only seemed like blood; in reality, it was his life force. The spirits greedily devoured it, but were in no hurry to help.
  The loss of energy, the journey through worlds, the encounters with spirits, the sight of menacing or frightened gods had exhausted Fyodor terribly. He was already struggling to escape the motley threads of infinity with all his might when he sensed the presence of someone completely alien and powerful.
  Not a spirit, not a Mugda, and not a god. But not a man either. A shaman, but... not a shaman. A seer. A very powerful one. Fyodor felt his presence like a huge granite boulder falling into a fast-flowing river, blocking its course, deathly still and hostile. It was as if this alien shaman were pushing him out of all worlds, to the edge of creation.
  "Hey, who's there?" Fyodor called out anxiously.
  His voice in the astral space became heavy and menacing, like a bear's roar.
  "Who are you? Why are you here? Hey, hey, hey, why did you come? What do you want?" Fyodor roared.
  The answer came from everywhere and almost crushed him.
  - Eagle!
  And indeed, in the boundless abysses of space, something resembling a great eagle, filling infinity, appeared before him. Its black wings embraced all three worlds, and its white chest shone dazzlingly. And into this radiance, Fyodor's soul was powerfully drawn, like a speck of iron dust to a powerful magnet. And above it all, a fiery eye spun and turned like a gigantic wheel, surveying—the shaman was clearly aware of this—everything that existed, in every nook and cranny of every world.
  Fyodor knew what it was—the Great Void, spoken of by the lamas in the datsan, the Satan cursed by Russian priests. For Fyodor, it was Khalgi, the adversary of the spirit of life, Seveki—the undead that feeds on souls, absolute nothingness and eternal horror, indescribable, bringing final death.
  The shaman realized he was completely lost and prepared to vanish. There was no mercy or leniency to be expected from this creature.
  But then, a bright grain of sand separated from the glow on the monster's chest and flew toward the shaman. As it approached, Fyodor saw that it was a glowing egg, composed of dazzling, constantly moving flagella.
  The shaman realized that he saw his opponent and felt relieved, since he would not have to fight with the Eagle, a fight with whom was completely hopeless.
  The shining egg floated very close, and the outline of the Eagle dissolved in its light.
  Now before Fyodor stood a huge, half-naked, bronze-skinned man, wearing a spotted skin of some kind—like a lynx, only larger—draped over his shoulders. The monster's grinning head served as the stranger's helmet. In his hand, he clutched a long, flat club, the edges of which glinted dully with a jagged, glassy edge.
  The enemy's face was expressionless, his eyes utterly lifeless—like narrow slits into the void of space. But Fyodor knew that through those slits, Something was peering at him intently.
  The shaman didn't know how it saw him. Perhaps he, too, was a glowing egg—that's how any person appears to the seer's special vision. Or a young hunter, clutching a long, sharp palm. It didn't matter—at such levels of existence, battles took place without the aid of muscles and weapons, which here were mere phantoms.
  "Why are you here?" Fyodor growled.
  “I came to see the boy,” the stranger answered.
  His voice was strong but monotonous, like the voice of a dead man. It still echoed everywhere, though it wasn't as terrifying as Orel's—still, there was something human about it.
  - Do you want to take him?
  Fyodor put up a palm tree. He couldn't give the boy away—otherwise, what kind of shaman would he be?
  “I just want to talk to him,” the opponent replied dispassionately, but he also swung his club, preparing to throw.
  "No!" Fyodor roared, attacking.
  His blow was powerful and merciless. The palm should have pierced his opponent. But it didn't. He jumped back, simultaneously swinging his weapon. Fedor was thrown back as if by a mighty gust of wind.
  "There's no need for us to fight," the stranger said. "I'll talk to him and then leave."
  "You want to take him! But I won't let you!" Fyodor shouted, attacking again.
  This time, the palm tree pierced the alien's shoulder, and blood gushed. It hung in tatters in this incredible space, just like Fyodor's blood, but it wasn't red, but blue-black.
  The enemy seemed to be growing enraged. He clutched at his wound. The power stopped flowing.
  Looking at Fyodor with even narrower eyes, he hissed:
  - I'm stronger. You can't stand it.
  Fyodor knew it himself—he'd already lost too much strength. Besides, he was old, tired, and frightened by Dyabdar. But for some reason, he had to continue the fight. Without knowing why, he was certain there was no escape, or things would get very bad.
  He attacked again, this time attempting to cleave his opponent. And then the palm in his hands transformed into a completely unexpected object. The people of Fyodor called it a lokoptyn and hung sacrifices to the spirits on it. And the people of the Ray called it a kires, and their god hung on it.
  Fyodor, even though he had been baptized by a visiting priest, still couldn't understand how God could be hanged on a tree and killed. And why he was still God after that. He sensed the importance of these circumstances, but they were incomprehensible to him.
  And he never saw the Russian God in his wanderings through the upper and lower worlds. Although he saw many other gods—not only the Evenk gods, but many others, some of which he had never even heard.
  But now, in his hands—perhaps in the most important duel of his entire life—he had a kires instead of a weapon. And Fyodor struck his opponent with it.
  He let out a terrifying scream. His cry echoed through all the worlds, and the spirits and gods once again cowered in terror. The alien's face twisted with insane hatred. Kires entered his body, and it began to disintegrate.
  Fyodor was filled with the victor's malicious triumph. He laughed mockingly and raised his kires for another blow. But it turned back into a palm tree, which, what's more, snapped down the middle.
  And the disintegrating enemy, convulsing, swung his club and simply chopped Fyodor down.
  A third of the shaman's body, including his head, shoulder, and arm, still clutching the broken shaft, smoothly separated from the rest and rose. Gushing streams of blood filled the space like monstrous garlands—so thickly that Fyodor, staring in amazement at his stump below, no longer saw his adversary.
  Fyodor suddenly found himself in a vast, snow-covered tundra. He was now healthy, uninjured, and appeared in his Middle World form—a short, thin old man with a wrinkled face, a high forehead, and a piercing gaze beneath thick, unibrowed eyebrows. He stood wrapped in an old cloak, traded from a Russian geologist for a reindeer pelt. His long, loose gray hair fluttered in the wind.
  He found himself in the middle of an endless desert and had no idea what to do. It was terribly cold—Fyodor was accustomed to all kinds of frost, but he'd never experienced anything like this. His hair quickly became coated in frost, forming a sort of transparent, iridescent crown above his head.
  He knew very well where he had ended up - in the afterlife of the buni, from which there is and cannot be any return.
  Fedor was overcome with despair.
  From afar, the jingling of a bell could be heard—someone was riding a reindeer. Fyodor peered painfully across the white plain, but saw no one, even though the jingling grew closer.
  There it seemed to fill everything around, and Fyodor realized that some powerful and perhaps dangerous spirit was riding. Or even a god.
  The rumble was very close, Fyodor could already hear the snoring of a deer—a very strong young deer. But he still saw no one.
  And then the realization washed over him that he wouldn't see anyone, that for him, the ninth-generation shaman Fyodor Kopenkin, this sight was forbidden. But this realization was somehow peaceful and joyful. Unexpectedly, Fyodor fell to his knees and buried his head in the snow.
  A deer raced past—the shaman heard it clearly. Some impulse finally made him raise his face. And then quickly lower it again and kneel until the jingling of the bell faded into the snowy distance.
  But he remembered for the rest of his short life what he saw in that brief moment.
  Seveki looked at him. Seveki was the Russian God—just as he was depicted on the icons hanging in churches. God's face was calm and peaceful. Fyodor clearly felt that God knew everything about him and would judge him for everything he had done in his strange life. But that would not happen yet.
  God sat upright on the deer, seemingly unfazed by the beast's swift pace. In His hands was a small, fluttering bird, and Fyodor knew what it was.
  “Seveki, Jesus Christ is carrying the boy’s soul back on a deer,” whispered Fyodor, and he woke up lying on the earthen floor of his shaman’s tent.
  "Get up, you slept through all the fun," the old ray scientist said, nudging the boy, who was also coming to his senses. "I told you not to eat those fly agarics."
  Fyodor looked wildly at the guests leaving the tent, then fell into a black abyss of silence. His assistants, accustomed to his fainting spells after the ritual, didn't disturb him until evening. Then they finally became concerned and returned to the tent. Fyodor was unconscious, groaning and thrashing about. He spent the entire next day in this state, waking up only in the evening.
  The Russians came to say goodbye to him. The boy's teacher wanted to give him more cigarettes and a bottle of vodka—he seemed to think Fyodor was playing up his illness to get more money. But the shaman indifferently declined the offering.
  He felt very ill—his strength was ebbing and continuing to drain from his body and all his souls. It was difficult even to speak. But he turned to Zhenya, who looked at him with sympathy and—Fyodor saw it—understanding.
  "You'll meet him again," the shaman almost whispered, and immediately realized the boy already knew it. "Don't abandon Kires," he continued. "The stranger wants this, and you don't abandon him. Not in any world."
  “Why?” the boy asked.
  He really needed to know.
  But the shaman only shook his head slightly.
  — I don’t know. Did you see God THERE?
  Zhenya shrugged. Fyodor realized he remembered little from his journey through the worlds.
  "I don't know if He will help you anymore. Be strong yourself," said the shaman.
  The boy nodded. Yes, he will be strong.
  Fyodor closed his eyes and passed out again. The last thing he heard were the words of the old beam:
  — What kind of nonsense was he talking about?
  Fyodor spent the rest of the summer ill, thinking he'd never recover. But then he finally felt a little better. As soon as he could move, he gathered a dozen reindeer and set out into the taiga. His path led to the place where, in his youth, he'd witnessed the Dyabdar Convergence.
  Finding a small hollow in the taiga, he set up a tent there and began the arduous work. He hurried, knowing he had little time. And he did: by the time snowdrifts began to swirl in the air, something unprecedented had appeared in the taiga.
  Fyodor erected a platform of logs, on which he placed a square hut made of poles with a hipped roof. Behind it, he constructed a "kalir"—a sacred "deer" made of logs, similar to the one that always stood before the tent where he performed his shamanic rituals.
  On the kalir he placed three lokoptyns, which the rays call kires - three kires, each with three crosspieces, Fedor placed.
  Having finished his work, he stepped aside, collapsed exhausted onto a snow-covered stump and admired the work of his hands.
  Fyodor erected a sacred tent for the Russian God, copying it as best he could from those large houses where Russian priests swung censers. He himself didn't really know why he did it, but he knew it was necessary.
  He thought he should hang a sacrifice—a freshly flayed reindeer hide—on the kires, as his people always did. But after some thought, he decided against it, untied the reindeer, and trudged back to the tent. His whole body ached—his illness had returned.
  He couldn't get up for a long time again, calmly thinking that soon he would quietly depart from his tent to the buni. But that night, he felt a lightness in his body, rose, and walked out into the sky.
  The world was covered in snow and bathed in moonlight. A profound silence reigned; even the spirits froze. Only the occasional snort and crunch of snow from the reindeer—they hadn't run away, but continued to dig lichen in the hollow.
  Fyodor stood for a long time, as if bathed in moonlight. The words of the song one of the rays of light had spoken to him swirled in his head. Fyodor had previously considered them meaningless, but now, for some reason, they came to him.
  Black plague.
  White snow.
  Twinkling of stars.
  
  Snowy fields
  Overflow
  And silence.
  
  Everything is silent,
  As if sleeping.
  Twilight, shadows...
  
  Black Plague,
  White snow
  And the deer...*
  Having said goodbye to the familiar spirits of the musun, to his spirit-helpers, the seven, to the deer, the chum and the taiga, Fyodor climbed under the platform, lay down with his head towards the three kires and began to wait.
  The terrible serpent Dyabdar still hung over him, and his mouth was flaming, but Fedor had already been picked up and carried by the Heavenly River.
  And now he was in the endless, snow-covered, frosty tundra of the buni world. Gusts of wind tore his tattered cloak and the rest of his clothing from him, ruffling and chilling his hair, which rose again above his head like a transparent, shining crown. Soon, Fyodor himself had turned into an ice statue, but he didn't notice. He waited motionless for the jingle of reindeer bells to be heard in the distance. He didn't care how long he waited...
  
   * Nikolai Lesovsky
  8
  
  Ilona Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Moscow. November 2, 2029
  Ilona walked quickly along the snow-covered, crooked alleys. This year, the cold weather had arrived too early, pounced on the capital like a killer from around the corner. She was desperately cold, trying unsuccessfully to wrap herself in a short black doublet with a stand-up collar—fashionable, but terribly cold. Her feet, in their narrow stiletto boots, were also numb to the point of numbness.
  She longingly recalled the warm and comfortable interior of her neat car, which had been in for repairs for a week, forcing her to ride the subway and freeze on the street.
  However, the cold brought at least some variety to the leaden depression that had remained with Ilona for many months.
  At first, she feared she was going crazy and visited doctors. They advised rest and prescribed a ton of pills, which she refused to take. And she found it disconcerting to realize that the doctors saw before them only a rejuvenated old woman who had already begun to slide into the murky cave of dementia.
  But then she really wanted to go crazy - then everything that was happening to her could be explained as delirium.
  Of course, she didn't tell the doctors everything, even though she knew it was wrong. But she simply wasn't able to put it into sensible, coherent, and understandable phrases.
  And there was no one else to tell—Ilona was completely alone. Her family and friends were either dead or far away, and she didn't want to tell those close by. And she'd never had many friends. The young museum staff looked at her like a historical relic—with reverence and some bewilderment that she, a student and (whispered) lover of the EVK himself, was still alive and even looked like a woman.
  After her husband's death, Ilona began to think she could get used to loneliness. But she didn't notice that it literally poured from her eyes, and everyone around her could clearly see it. She also didn't know that this extraordinary, searing loneliness had been lodged in her soul like a cast-iron block even during the life of her husband, Antonio. It had settled within her many years ago, one tragic moonlit night in Mexico, beneath the maddening wail of the cicadas.
  She was still angry at EVK... Zhenya... What had he done to her?! Why had he left, what had he wanted to say by his suicide?..
  If it was suicide, of course. The police investigated the case diligently. He walked through the jungle to the ruins of Chichen Itza, for a long time, stopping once, lighting a fire, even lying down. He burned wood in the fire and—Ilona couldn't understand or forgive this—pieces of deer hide.
  Investigators found an empty stash of scuba gear hidden in the jungle. Apparently, it was done at his request by a local.
  Drops of blood were also found near the fire. His blood. He must have injured himself while fighting his way through the jungle. The blood trail led all the way to the cenote and then ended.
  ...But why did he burn the codex? He's a scholar! If he decided to leave, why didn't he leave this amazing manuscript to her—his best student and... his woman?
  Or perhaps it was because the manuscript was a forgery, created by him for some unknown purpose? However, she herself didn't believe this theory—even though she had glimpsed the codex for only a few seconds, she was convinced it was genuine.
  Then Zhenya came to the cenote, put on his scuba gear, and went down. Forever.
  They said a lot of things. For example, that he was drunk. The Mexicans had noticed that their distinguished guest wasn't above a stiff drink. They told a story about how the country's president, as a sign of respect, sent him a luxurious, enormous bottle of vodka, and the venerable Russian scientist and the presidential aide who delivered it sat it out right there in the hotel room. The aide had to be revived by medics, but the EVK was as fit as a fiddle.
  The story, by the way, is completely true. And nothing surprising—EVK drank a lot and often. But she'd never seen him lose his mind from drinking. He could become goofily cheerful, or coldly ironic, or sullenly introspective. But she couldn't imagine him in such a state committing a suicidal act, like a night dive into a cenote. And he wasn't drunk when he went there.
  Ilona was convinced that Zhenya had compelling reasons for doing what he did. But these reasons were incomprehensible, and this increased her anxiety.
  Or he could simply have been killed. The secret intelligence agencies' hustle and bustle around him was practically routine. He told her several times that he had miraculously escaped arrest during Stalin's lifetime. And even then, the secret surveillance continued—shady characters constantly appeared in his circle, correspondence took a long time to arrive and was clearly scanned, and people from the "office" held preventative talks with some of his colleagues. Why they cared about a linguist and historian whose academic interests, if they touched on politics, were limited to the politics of pre-Columbian America—Ilona couldn't fathom.
  However, she always suspected that Zhenya wasn't telling her much about his life. And perhaps she didn't want to know too much—at times, his personality simply frightened her.
  Moreover, it was clear that the Cromlech was of interest not only to agents of the KGB itself, but also to their Western counterparts. In Mexico, CIA agents were simply swarming around like flies. After all, the warming of relations had barely begun, and all the intelligence agencies were still operating according to the logic of the Cold War. Ilona remembered that there had been some strange incidents at home, about which the EVK had casually dropped disturbing hints.
  But now, now what do they need - when forty years have already passed since he disappeared from the face of the earth?..
  She instinctively quickened her pace—she was still a long way from home, and there were almost no passersby on the road, everyone hiding from the cold. She felt uneasy, though she had never been a coward. It was unknown what would happen for Ilona Maximovna to panic. The cool, rational mind of a scientist, her habit of systematization and objectivity left little room for fear. Except, perhaps, for a painful, soul-destroying anxiety...
  In short, she had no rational reason to believe what her spinal cord had been telling her all along—that someone was following her all the time, unnoticed and persistent.
  And she had even less reason to suspect any fantastical devilry in her life. Such a thing simply couldn't happen.
  But this completely sensible and reassuring conclusion was shattered by an implausible fact that was beyond comprehension: it had actually happened!
  That skeleton was there, and there was no escaping it. It was now in Mexico City, and its analysis could take years, but she already knew that the buried man's DNA hadn't been preserved. So, there remained a certain leeway between normal life and outright madness. This suited Ilona—she simply didn't want to dig up that strand of coarse black hair from its secret hiding place, conduct DNA analysis, and compare its DNA with that of ancient bones belonging to God knows who.
  It was more reassuring. But besides the bones, there were also the tomb's texts. Several specialists were now trying to decipher complex phrases, the words of which were mostly clear, but their meaning eluded the researchers completely. Except for her, Ilona. She thought she'd read the message, but telling any of her colleagues about it was unthinkable.
  Among other things, the ECSC developed ethnic semiotics—an interdisciplinary field that has become a useful tool for deciphering ancient texts. Indeed, any text. Its essence lay in the fact that each specific culture develops its own models for transmitting information. This includes not only a system of written signs, but also, for example, facial expressions, gestures, speech, ceremonies, rituals, and so on. An adequate understanding of an ancient text without knowing and taking this context into account is impossible. Even if you read the written signs and understand the words they represent, the meaning of the entire text may remain a mystery or, worse, be misunderstood.
  Therefore, for a linguist-decipherer, knowledge and understanding of the history of the people who created the scripts they are working on is critically important. But what if... this context represents a microculture, emerging through the interactions of individual human beings? After all, two close friends always share memories that only they can correctly interpret, words, rituals, and gestures that are understandable only to them.
  Nonsense? But try to "decipher" a note written in perfectly understandable words by a loving wife to her husband of thirty years. If you don't know the couple, and not very well, the text might seem like gibberish to you.
  "Lona the Cat," he called her, and these were the first words from Kukulkan's tomb that she deciphered. For her, this was the same as the names of Ptolemy and Cleopatra on the Rosetta Stone were for Champollion. Those who tried unsuccessfully to understand the texts now might forever puzzle over the meaning of the phrase: "The jaguarundi woman, her name is the women's grotto." Only she, Ilona, knew this. Or so she thought she knew...
  She clearly understood that the initial error would lead to a misreading of the entire text. This had happened before in their work, for example, when deciphering the inscriptions of the Proto-Indian civilization. And if "Lona the Cat" was suggested to her by her madness, everything else she gleaned from the inscription was semantic rubbish, meaningless.
  So be it!
  Ilona even stopped and straightened up angrily.
  She wanted the inscription to convey the stunning meaning it revealed to her. Even if it was just a greeting from her growing paranoia and a future life in a psychiatric hospital's woeful ward!
  They followed her!
  Now she was one hundred percent sure of it. A shadowy silhouette flickered in the cold shadows at the far end of the alley. And it seemed to freeze there, catching Ilona's movement.
  Fear surged through her, but she suppressed it with a strong will. Pretending to fix something under her clothes, she quickly glanced around. The buildings were deserted, filled with offices. A few lights were still on, meaning late employees were still there. Someone might notice the screams and call the police. But the question was, what would they do to her before help arrived?
  There is no one in the alley, which is surprising even given the cold weather and the late Friday evening.
  It seemed that the one hidden in the shadows began to move - a soft sound began to wander through the icy air along the alley, reflecting off the yellow walls.
  She could have called the police herself. Ilona glanced at the ring containing a phone, a computer, and several other devices. With two movements, she could activate the panic button on the virtual monitor, and they'd immediately detect you via satellite.
  So what will she say about the outfit? "A dark silhouette is following me"?
  “Ilonka, you’re going crazy,” she told herself.
  There were two blocks left to the house, he’ll get there somehow.
  She moved on, feeling with her back that her pursuer had also begun to move.
  Never mind, there's just a little bit left...
  True, now there would be a very narrow, dark alley, slanting toward the gate of her house. That one was around the corner, which made the alley seem like a dead end from here.
  Removing her glove, she felt the ring, which, among other things, contained the key to the gate. The ghostly square of the shared monitor flickered before her in the semi-darkness.
  The thick shadows at the end of the alley suddenly began to move, revealing two figures.
  And behind her she heard quick footsteps. Someone was practically running towards her.
  She tore the glove off her other hand with her teeth and pointed her finger at the panic button already displayed on the monitor.
  The button should have pulsed red, but it remained grey and inactive.
  She was attacked from two sides at once, sharply and silently, like an experienced killer stabbing someone in the heart with lightning speed.
  Only they didn't kill her.
  The man who ran up behind her put her in a chokehold. Ilona acted automatically—she tried to duck down, simultaneously kicking as hard as she could into the shadow that had appeared in front of her.
  The blow seemed to have been successful—she felt the heel of her foot sink into the yielding flesh and heard a pained cry. But the second one, who had jumped up from in front (to her fleeting surprise, it was a black man), suddenly punched her in the gut, causing her to gasp and momentarily lose consciousness. The one behind her continued to press on her carotid artery. Everything swam before her eyes.
  The last thing she saw was an approaching hand with a syringe.
  Darkness has set in.
  However, she seemed to come to her senses very quickly, not immediately realizing that the situation had changed dramatically.
  Ilona sat on the snow-covered asphalt, trying frantically to catch her breath and looking with desperate bewilderment at the battle raging around her.
  Several men fought silently and fiercely among themselves. The only sounds were wheezing and rapid blows.
  Ilona slightly turned her terribly sore neck and saw a perfectly calm face right next to her, its unseeing eyes staring up at the murky sky. Apparently, it was the man who had grabbed her from behind. And apparently, he was dead!
  The horror of what was happening finally reached her, she jumped up abruptly and rushed unconscious down the alley to the gate in the lattice fence.
  Without noticing that it was open, Ilona ran to the entrance, activating the key on the go.
  Only after closing the apartment door behind her and leaning her back against it did she weaken and prepare to slide helplessly to the floor. But another shock awaited her.
  In the darkness, she realized that the apartment was in obvious disarray, something that Ilona Maksimovna, who was so neat to the point of neurosis, could not have by definition.
  Without looking, she flicked the switch and looked around in shock at the devastation: overturned furniture, clothes torn out of closets, books strewn across the floor.
  “We searched, we searched, we searched!” was beating in Ilona’s head.
  Now she knew what her attackers had wanted. And what they hadn't found in her apartment—because she always carried it with her, not trusting it to her hiding places or to her computer, from which she had erased all the working decryption files.
  Barely moving on her wobbly legs, she made her way into the kitchen. Oddly enough, the devastation there was far less. Sure, all the cabinets were wide open, but Ilona didn't see any broken dishes.
  Taking an untouched half-empty bottle of cognac from the cabinet, she poured it generously into a glass and drank it straight away. Her sore throat burned like fire, but immediately felt better. Without sitting down, she poured and drank more. Then she collapsed onto a stool.
  After sitting for a few minutes, she unbuttoned her jacket and blouse. A small leather pouch, hanging on a cord around her neck, came into view. From it, she pulled out a folded sheet of paper and unfolded it.
  “Lona the Cat. You are afraid and you do not believe, but you know it is I. I did not do what I did. All this time [always?] we should be [were?] together. What is time?.. I do not know. Everything has changed, but you do not understand. I want you to meet me and pass through [the great vagina or membrane of transition] to Bolon Yokta. Forgive. Farewell. Live.”
  She thought this was an adequate translation of the texts from Kukulkan's tomb. Although he still remained enigmatic. Time?.. Didn't do what he did?.. The Great Vaginal Membrane?.. What nonsense!
  But the text of the message was exactly like that - she approached the decipherment with all the professionalism that EVK had invested in it.
  Of course, the translation's meaning was general. Ilona punctuated and distilled the sentences to her own understanding. There were some things she couldn't quite grasp, for example, why Bolon Yokte was mentioned. Apparently, he was important to the... ruler buried there.
  And what were those words before the god's name? "Cave, vagina, eardrum, sky"... Something about love? Or not? Rebirth, perhaps?
  The warmth from the cognac spread inside her, she almost calmed down, rereading the amazing lines again, trying to understand them to the end.
  The phone on my finger suddenly started pulsating loudly.
  Ilona looked with horror, as if at a poisonous snake, at the artificial ruby flaring up and fading away in the rhythm of the sound signal.
  Then she jumped up, ignoring the challenge, turned the gas stove burner and held the precious paper to the blue tongues of flame.
  The leaf burned quickly. She held onto it as long as she could, then dumped the remains into the sink and washed it away with a strong stream of water from the faucet.
  The phone went silent.
  That's it. Now only she knows the contents of the tomb's inscription. And she won't tell anyone. Never, under any circumstances.
  
   Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh. Mexico. Chichen Itza. November 2, 1990.
  At times, the cicadas' siren became unbearable, but Evgeny had always been able to abstract himself from external circumstances and hardly noticed the irritating sounds.
  He walked for about an hour along the road from the hotel, then turned into the forest. He'd only been here once before, but he had no doubt he'd find his way to the cenote. The jungle here was fairly populated, with many well-trodden paths used by tourists and locals.
  On the road, he kept encountering noisy, tipsy Mexicans in macabre skull masks—they were celebrating Día de los Muertos*. The white, grinning faces of the masks, the ghostly candles flickering in the lanterns, and the strumming of guitars in the moonlight created an eerie, otherworldly atmosphere. However, EVK paid not the slightest attention to it.
  But the thicket was quiet. A huge moon hung over the trees like a monstrous lantern. Its light made it easier to navigate the vegetation, but the forest took on an unusual, even somewhat infernal, appearance.
  There were strange smells all around, and no less strange sounds could sometimes be heard from the thicket.
  The cromlech paid no attention to any of this. He sensed the end of a very long journey and was consumed by this sensation.
  At the same time, dozens of other thoughts swirled within him. Mostly about Ilona. The sadness of having to leave her had long since dulled. After all, he'd known for years, even before they met, that sooner or later he would walk these paths. Now he was pondering their last conversation. Should he have shown her the codex without explaining anything?
  Perhaps it was worth it. She wouldn't accept the truth anyway—she was too rational for now, too reliant on hard facts. Someday, that would be what would make her reconsider her views, but for now, anything he could tell her would likely prompt her to call the psychiatrists and sadly hand over her elderly teacher to their care.
  He himself couldn't grasp the truth for a very long time—despite all the signs that fate—or someone else—had sent him since his youth. But it's all so incredible...
  From the very day he returned from Kaliningrad, found himself alone in his parents' apartment, opened his pencil case, and immersed himself in contemplation of the fantastic document he had acquired, his work on the ancient text never ceased. No matter what he did during the day, no matter how soundly he slept at night, drunk or sober—the manuscript's marks remained with him, and a titanic process was underway in his subconscious.
  He always considered the work of a linguist akin to archaeology: you dig down to the cultural layer with a shovel, then spend a long, painstaking time working with a shovel, a spoon, a brush, a toothbrush, even toothpicks, revealing the fragments of a bygone life. Then you assemble them into a whole object—first mentally, then in reality—penetrating its essence and thus sometimes resurrecting vanished empires.
  Instead of scoops and brushes, he used a powerful ability to analyze and an equally powerful intuition.
  Things progressed faster when he came across copies of three famous Mayan codices and a book by Friar de Landa, who was the first to decipher Mayan writing using the knowledge of a living Mayan speaker. Friar Diego even composed a Mayan alphabet—as Cromlech later discovered, a fatal error, for the Indian with whom the monk was working was using hieroglyphs to record not sounds, but the names of Spanish letters.
  Naturally, these volumes couldn't be simply borrowed from any library in the USSR, or anywhere else. Copies were made specifically for them and circulated among a select group of specialists. But one day, Professor Stolyarov asked Kromlekh to stay in the classroom after class. From under his desk, he handed Zhenya a dirty string bag containing a large package.
  “Here, you’ll need it,” he said briefly.
  The bundles contained copies of all three codices and Landa's book. Evgeny never asked the teacher where he got them—he knew from somewhere that it wasn't worth it.
  Lost in his memories, EVK didn't notice how he'd reached the spot where Antonio had hidden the scuba gear at his request—under a rotten tree trunk. A large cross had been carved into a nearby tree to mark the hiding place.
  “He’s a good guy,” thought Evgeny, taking out pieces of equipment.
  When EVK flew to Mexico, he, of course, understood that he couldn't accomplish his plans there without an assistant. And once again, fate sent him an enthusiastically attentive young Mexican scientist who had been tailing the Russians. Antonio did everything precisely, without asking unnecessary questions, and didn't tell anyone.
  Before he reached the cenote, EVK had to do something very important. There was still time. Walking fifty paces from the cache, he gathered some brushwood and lit a small fire. He crouched down, pulled the treasured pencil case from his bosom, opened it, and extracted the codex.
  In the flickering light from the flames, the bizarre figures on the tattered leather seemed to move. They bounced, shook their heads, and lolled their tongues mockingly. He hadn't lied to Ilona when he said the pictures had given him the key to deciphering the code—and they, too, of course. And the Landa alphabet, which simply had to be used correctly. Things took off when he finally realized these signs weren't ideograms—they represented syllables.
  But deciphering the first words still took many years. It was painstaking, almost bookkeeping work: to capture the meaning of a particular sign, it had to be found in several places and derive meaningful phrases. And that required the sign to be read the same way.
  Gradually, he realized that the word "che" meant "tree" and "chel" meant "rainbow," and that this was the name of the goddess Ixchel. The pictures were helpful here—it was known that this fertility goddess was traditionally depicted seated with a rabbit in her lap, framed by an abstract moon symbol. But all this wasn't enough—after all, his predecessors had already deciphered individual words. He also needed to master the script and the individual handwriting of the Mayan scribes—there were many variations of hieroglyphic writing. He needed to separate the roots from the remaining parts of the words, and then analyze how often the signs were repeated and how they combined. And there was much more to do.
  During this time, much changed in Evgeny's life: his parents died, and he had to exchange their St. Petersburg apartment. He received a one-room apartment in a new building, but he disliked it and preferred to live in the tiny closet allocated to him by the Museum of Ethnography of the Peoples of the USSR, where Stolyarov arranged for him to live after graduating from university.
  His work there wasn't particularly dusty... or rather, it was dusty but easy—mostly he beat out collectible Turkmen carpets. This took about half an hour. The rest of the time, he sat in his little room, working on his text. And he drank—he'd long ago discovered that alcohol helped him think, and he decided that this wonderful property outweighed any harm it could cause. And vodka relaxed him, which, given the tension he'd endured for years, was a great blessing.
  Lev, a senior researcher, often joined him for a drink. He had also been hired at the museum for a low-paying position to provide housing and the opportunity to conduct research. He was the son of renowned poets; his father had been executed in the 1920s for counterrevolution, and his mother had just suffered the full brunt of Soviet displeasure. Lev himself had recently been released from the camps. A sham (or perhaps not entirely sham) marriage to an influential woman in the museum world helped him return to St. Petersburg.
  Despite Lev being considerably older than Zhenya, they conversed quite amicably, sometimes sharing two or three bottles of wine in an evening. Evgeny enjoyed his friend's figurative speech and his astonishing erudition in history and geography. Lev had interesting ideas about the origin and development of ethnic groups—Evgeny sometimes agreed with him, and sometimes fiercely argued with him. The dimly lit room was filled with the smoke of Lev's strong cigarettes, Evgeny's cigarettes, and the odor of alcohol, and often uttered unprintable remarks. Now Evgeny thought it was the happiest time of his life.
  True, Lev soon disappeared from his life—arrested and imprisoned once again, this time as part of an ideological campaign against his mother. After his release, he returned to Leningrad; he and Kromlekh briefly saw each other a few times, but their friendship was never renewed.
  And it was Lev who deduced the meaning of the most important Mayan phrase in EVK's life. During one of their get-togethers in the closet, Evgeny showed his friend the translation of words from HIS codex, which he was beginning to understand a little. Of course, he didn't say where he got the phrase from, but simply laid out a piece of paper on the table on which he had written down the deciphered words. Individually, they were perfectly clear, but the overall meaning was puzzling: "A man of noble birth, his family is called the sacred stone circle." This phrase was repeated several times in the codex.
  Lev glanced at the paper and burst into laughter, choking on cigarette smoke and coughing for a long time afterward. Evgeny looked at him in bewilderment.
  "What are you laughing at?" he asked.
  "Don't you understand?" Lev looked at him with amused bewilderment. "Or are you making fun of me?"
  - In terms of?
  "You mean you slipped me a tracing of your name," Lev laughed again. "'A man of noble birth' is a literal translation of the name Evgeny. And 'his family is called,' that is, bears the surname... What?"
  — ...
  Evgeny uttered several very strong words into the smoke-filled space of the closet.
  "The Sacred Stone Circle." The Cromlech! he finished for Leo.
  "Exactly," he continued to chuckle. "But admit you were trying to play a joke on me—the Mayans certainly wouldn't have written down your name."
  “Exactly, I caught it,” Evgeny answered mechanically, trying to comprehend the incredible discovery that had befallen him.
  It took him a great deal of effort to change the conversation, discreetly removing the piece of paper from the table. However, it was too late, and soon Lev, swaying, headed home.
  And Evgeny was left alone with something huge and inexplicable.
  
   * Day of the Dead (Spanish)
  9
  
  The Codex of Kukulkan. Translated by Evgeny Kromlekh
  I, Lord Priest Kukulkan, write on the day 9.8.11.6.10, and 13 Ok, and 18 Kekh, to you, [a man of noble birth, his family is called the sacred stone circle].
  I am you. You are my son and father. Begotten by you, I guide you.
  I am Kukulkan, I am [a man of noble birth, his family is called the sacred stone circle].
  Now you are not me, but you will become me.
  You, [a man of noble birth, his family is called the sacred stone circle], will come through the underside of the world, through the [vagina or great membrane of passage], where [the mouth of the well of the water sorcerers].
  You will go to [the god] Bolon Yokta, where the nagual is.
  You will be alone.
  I wasn't alone. I was swimming in the water. She was swimming with me. The jaguarundi woman, her name is the female grotto.
  Ish-Tab took her.
  Oh, my wife. I'm crying.
  I will tell my son to write this [for her] in my tomb.
  You cannot escape Bolon Yokte, but you resist the inevitable. Come back and break the cycle.
  The Nagual wants to take the tonal.
  I remember the tonal, I remember the nagual. I remember the circle.
  So that you remember the circle, I am writing this to you.
  Draw a cross through the circle.
  Fear the eagle. Fear the eagle.
  [A man of noble birth, his family is called the sacred stone circle], [the puma of this land, the son of the scribes] understood this. [Form of greeting] to him.
  Don't be afraid of the eagle.
  
   Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh. Mexico. Chichen Itza. November 2, 1990.
  He had to accept the unthinkable—that his name was written on a document fourteen hundred years old. That it was a letter addressed to him from the past. Although, in reality, that wasn't the hardest part—Eugene had encountered the unbelievable too often in his life to dismiss mystical explanations outright.
  And was it really mysticism? He understood that the properties of time were unknown and infinitely complex. Of course, a "time machine" was science fiction, which, incidentally, he also enjoyed reading in his spare time. But who could guarantee that time couldn't repeat itself or go backwards?
  Sherlock Holmes's principle: eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains will be the truth. No matter how improbable. Cromlech did just that.
  So this letter was indeed addressed to him. Further proof was the penultimate sentence. Lions don't live in America, but the puma is often called a mountain lion there. So, the codex contained a direct request to convey greetings to Leo, the son of writers... Which, by the way, Cromlech never did, and felt guilty about it.
  So, a man named Kukulkan, a priest-ruler named after the feathered serpent god, one of the creators of the world, wrote the codex on November 2, 604. If Kukulkan is to be believed, and Cromlech had no reason not to. And this same Kukulkan claimed that he, Eugene Cromlech, would arrive somewhere through some underside of the world.
  For Yevgeny, years of reflection and study of the Mayan civilization had passed—studying remotely, since Cromlech was not allowed to travel abroad. His trustworthiness and loyalty to the Soviet regime were in grave doubt; he sometimes even thought the authorities simply didn't know what to do with him. But now Yevgeny knew everything possible about the cenotes and the labyrinth of water-filled caves beneath Yucatan—the hydrosystem upon which the Mayan civilization arose.
  So the document stated that he would enter somewhere through these very caves—the "inside out" of the world. And in a specific location, too, for the phrase "mouth of the well of the water sorcerers" referred to the city of Chichen Itza. Most likely, the document was referring to the Sacred Cenote located there—not far, incidentally, from the pyramid of the god Kukulkan...
  This knowledge colored the preceding years with a certain ominous anticipation. Evgeny never doubted for a moment that he had to do exactly as the codex prescribed. How else could he? Of course, he would do everything to get to the Yucatan, dive into the cenote, and enter... Where?
  Bolon Yokte represented Mars. This was obviously a reference to some astrological circumstances—the Maya couldn't live without them, aligning all their actions with the movements of the stars and planets.
  Ish-Tab, the goddess of suicide, who sits on the branches of the Tree of Life and escorts the souls of suicides to Xibalba?.. The Maya revered suicide as a virtue, but this did little to clarify why she was mentioned there.
  But the "great membrane of transition," also known as the vagina for some reason... Kromlech wasn't sure, but every time he reread these words, a memory from his youth flashed through him: a fiery, pulsating crimson-orange blotch, spreading out in the center of utter darkness. And the words flashing in his mind: "Nengo," "Doors," "Membrane."
  These words had been echoing in his strange dreams over the past years, when he found himself time after time in front of the fiery entrance to the unknown, rushing there, but each time waking up at the very last moment.
  He called IT the Membrane—for lack of a better name. When he got there, he'd see what it was. And that he would get there, Cromlech didn't doubt for a moment.
  ...The moon was hidden by clouds, and darkness immediately descended upon the jungle. Silence descended—for some reason, the cicadas and night birds suddenly fell silent.
  Kromlech stirred the burning branches in the fire with a manuscript case and tossed it into the flames. Greedy flames began licking the old wood, it smoldered, and soon became the fiery flesh of the fire.
  Eugene looked thoughtfully at the codex remaining in his hands.
  "The jaguarundi woman, her name is the women's grotto"...
  He knew who it was written about. And he didn't want to think about the meaning of this part of the manuscript.
  He met Ilona when the codex was almost deciphered, but for a long time he couldn't understand that she was indeed she—Lona the Cat. He couldn't imagine that his late love would become a gnawing wound, a gaping hole in his strange, improbable, but for him, inevitable path. And when he realized it, it was too late.
  The code stated that they would part—the rest he simply didn't understand. But the fact that inviting her along was impossible, that she simply wouldn't accept his revelation—at least now—was obvious to him. And so he tore her away. It was difficult—much more difficult than he thought. But he did it.
  With a swift motion, Kromlech decisively threw the manuscript into the dying fire. The flames immediately engulfed the ancient skin. It quickly shriveled and dissolved in the flames—like Kromlech's entire past life.
  “Manuscripts don’t burn, you say?” he said in a low voice.
  He was suddenly overcome by a terrible fatigue. Deciding to rest for five minutes before heading to the cenote, he wearily rested his head on his scuba tanks. But then, in the darkness of the undergrowth, a branch snapped. Then another. Someone was walking toward him.
  Evgeny immediately shook off his drowsiness and raised his head anxiously—he wasn't looking forward to running into a poacher or, even worse, one of the archaeological site's caretakers. However, it was most likely just some peasant on a Day of the Dead spree, wandering through the woods from the cemetery to his home village.
  But it wasn't a peasant, a poacher, or a caretaker. From the chaos of bushes, grass, and trees that gloomily surrounded the dying fire, emerged...
  “Antonio?” Evgeny exclaimed in surprise.
  “Good evening, Don Eugenio,” the young man bowed.
  Yevgeny Valentinovich liked Tony for his sincere dedication to science and, frankly, the undisguised admiration the young man showed for him. This was pleasant. Far less pleasing to Kromlech were the passionate glances he'd noticed Tony cast at Ilona a couple of times. "Well, that's just youth," the older scientist decided, and simply forgot about it, for he had absolute confidence in Ilona. Tony was useful in negotiations with the locals and had already resolved various problems that inevitably arose in a foreign country.
  But now Antonio seemed different—more serious, even ominous. Or was it the gloomy jungle and the firelight on his face that gave him that impression?
  “Wait, is this Antonio?” a thought flashed through Cromlech’s mind as he realized that the young man’s facial features seemed to blur, flow, turning into something completely different.
  The stranger's face no longer bore any resemblance to that of the Mexican graduate student. Before Kromlech stood a short, slightly plump Latino of indeterminate age, but clearly no longer a youth. He was dressed in black, with a shock of luxurious curls matching his suit, from beneath which his lively eyes sparkled. A benevolent smile graced his face, revealing the vulgar gold crowns on his front teeth.
  The alien was clearly waiting for Kromlech to collect his thoughts. He felt a tremor in his body and a foul, sour taste in his mouth.
  "Am I afraid?" Evgeny asked himself in surprise. "Why? What else could scare me here?"
  The fear disappeared instantly, and Kromlech said clearly and without a tremor in his voice to the stranger:
  — I know you. You've been to all my performances in Mexico.
  He actually remembered this inconspicuous man—God knows why. Perhaps because he always sat in the back row, silently listening to the speech with the same distant, damp smile he was wearing now. Kromlech, accustomed to the secretive hubbub around him, suspected he was either a local official or a CIA agent or some such. However, the strange listener never approached him to strike up a conversation.
  The stranger bowed slightly again in agreement.
  “The last thing I need is to deal with an informer now,” Evgeny thought with anxious annoyance.
  "Who are you?" he asked rather harshly.
  "My name is Carlos. Carlos Castaneda," the gentleman replied.
  The words that came out of his big mouth were quite euphonious, but the tone seemed a little saccharine.
  
   Ilona Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Moscow. December 31, 2029
  Ilona Maksimovna celebrated New Year's alone. This didn't seem like a tragedy to her in the least. She even felt a certain relief, realizing that she would be alone in her apartment on the night of the 31st.
  Her life didn't become any calmer after the attack. She reported it to the police, of course, though she immediately realized the "investigation" would be purely formal. In fact, she expected nothing less—it was clear the terror surrounding her was being orchestrated by the security services, and the police would likely stay out of it.
  However, nothing out of the ordinary has happened since that terrible evening. Ilona went to the institute, ran errands, and went shopping, unaware of the surveillance. There were no strange calls, no suspicious emails—nothing at all. One might have thought that after that crisis, the dark forces had left her alone.
  True, she herself didn’t think so.
  Sometimes she even wished for this deceptive calm to explode—the anticipation of some unknown disaster was unbearable. And in Moscow, she had absolutely no one to whom she could tell what was happening to her. She went through the names and faces of acquaintances, some of whom she considered her friends, and discarded them—anyone could be an enemy, anyone...
  Perhaps this is how paranoia began.
  If only Tony were alive!..
  Probably sensing her mood, many of those she interacted with began to distance themselves from her. Ilona didn't care.
  That's why she was sitting alone now. Of course, she'd been invited to various fun places for the night, but she'd refused them all. It was a kind of agoraphobia—she was terrified of being in a crowd, where everyone might have ill intentions toward her.
  That's why she didn't fly to Mexico City, where Antonio's colleagues and friends had invited her. The prospect of a two-week carnival terrified her. And most importantly, she was simply afraid of ending up on the same ground Evgeny had walked on in his final moments... The trip would certainly include a visit to Chichen Itza. Seeing the cursed cenote terrified her. Just like the monument to Zhenya that now stood next to it. It was sculpted based on his most famous photo, holding a cat, but, according to ancient local artistic traditions, half of his face was a bare skull. It looked terrifying. No, not there!
  Ilona Maximovna looked longingly at the mountain of groceries she needed to unpack, and at the small Christmas tree she'd bought for some reason. The customs she'd learned since childhood were firmly in place, though it seemed like there was no need for a Christmas tree...
  Standing up with a sigh, she poured water into a pitcher, set up the Christmas tree, took out the decorations she'd also bought that day, and the garland, and began decorating it. This innocent, childish activity calmed her somewhat, and by the time the tree was transformed, twinkling with multicolored lights, Ilona was already in an almost peaceful mood.
  Having adjusted the computer screen so that it was always in front of her eyes, no matter where she turned, she turned on the TV mode and indulged in another tradition, giggling for the hundred and fiftieth time at the amorous adventures of Zhenya Lukashin.
  "He's a real bastard, this good doctor," flashed through her mind, a thought that came to her every time she watched this film. And then, as always, it was forgotten.
  The screen caption read: "New Year's address by the Chairman of the State Council of the Russian Empire." Against the backdrop of the Kremlin towers with their double-headed eagles, the eternally youthful regent appeared.
  "Dear friends! A new year, 2030, is upon us..." the speech flowed smoothly.
  Listening absentmindedly to the story that "New Year is, above all, a family holiday, celebrated as we did in childhood: with gifts and surprises, with special warmth, in anticipation of the important changes that are sure to come into our lives," Ilona sank into a meditative state that was anything but typical for her. Only instead of a mantra, a phrase kept repeating endlessly in her head, addressed to no one in particular: "Please, please, let all this be resolved, please, let everything be resolved next year!..."
  "Peace and prosperity to our great Empire, our beloved and only Russia! Glory to the Empress! Be happy! Happy New Year!" the regent concluded, as always, with restrained pathos.
  "God Save the Tsar" blared, and Ilona realized she hadn't opened the champagne. She only managed to do so at the last moment, spilling just a little on herself. Taking a quick sip from the glass, she set it down on the table and ate a tartlet with black caviar, a selection of the holiday treats she'd bought at the nearby supermarket.
  She wasn't hungry at all, though. And the lingering melancholy had returned. Ilona poured a little cognac into a wide glass, drank it down in one gulp, nibbled on a grape, and began vaping, half-watching the decrepit showmen who had entertained her mother clown around on the screen.
  A couple of hours passed like this. The bottle of Camus was more than a quarter empty, and Ilona felt herself finally able to sleep. However, mindful of her recent insomnia, she took a Relanium pill as a precaution.
  But sleep wouldn't come. Ilona tossed and turned furiously, punching her pillow with her fist, trying to force it into a more comfortable position—all to no avail.
  Gradually, the woman fell into a strange state of neither sleep nor wakefulness. A variety of bizarre images swirled lazily in her head like clouds of steam. And increasingly, they took on erotic overtones. Since Antonio's death, Ilona had not been with a man, despite looking much younger than her years and still experiencing the frank glances of members of the opposite sex. Work had replaced all other relationships. However, over the years, she discovered that her libido never faded in old age—her desires merely sank deeper into the subconscious and could burst forth powerfully in this relaxed state.
  They were now spilling out like a capricious fountain. Men appeared in her imagination—not specific ones, but rather categorical images, performing actions on her that Ilona Maximovna would not only never allow in reality—some were simply physically impossible. But now she didn't care; she was completely overcome by a sweet, growing languor, seeking release.
  Falling deeper and deeper into the quagmire of erotic dreams, she could almost feel someone else's touch. These were no longer fantasies she had created, fantasies over which she had some control—they now existed objectively in relation to her, and she surrendered herself to their will.
  Skillful hands caressed her nipples and shoulders, and she felt the weight of another's body upon her. Strong legs eagerly parted her thighs, and the man entered her. Ilona was overcome with desire and began to furiously assist, writhing her entire body.
  It felt like the intercourse lasted forever. At some point, realizing it was all happening for real, she experienced a moment of overwhelming horror, but it was immediately washed away by a wave of insane pleasure.
  She didn't know she was screaming a man's name at that moment, and it wasn't her husband's name. And with that loud cry, she flew off somewhere where rainbow prominences swirled into delightful, slow-moving whirlpools.
  “Ilonsita, mia gatita blanca!”*, she heard in her ear, and a hot breath washed over her.
  Ilona let out another short scream, but this time it was a scream of horror. She opened her eyes wide.
  - Antonio!
  Her late husband's face loomed over her, his hot, sweaty body pressed tightly against hers.
  There was no way this was a dream, and this was Antonio—not the emaciated, yellowed, balding chemotherapy-ravaged, liver-ravaged metastases she'd last seen him. No, this was the young, swarthy Tony, with a shock of curly black hair and lively brown eyes, who had worshiped Evgeny almost religiously, been plunged into terrible grief by his disappearance, and then, long and persistently, timidly yet passionately, pursued her. Until she gave in, realizing that Evgeny had become nothing more than a majestic and sorrowful memory.
  “It’s me, Ilonsita,” came the whisper.
  Pushing the man away, she sat up abruptly in bed, noting in passing that she was completely naked, although she clearly remembered that she had gone to bed in her pajamas.
  The bedroom hadn't changed a bit—the same 19th-century antique armchair, given to her by the institute for her 60th birthday, the cherry-red curtains, and on the walls—a painting by Sergei Steblin of a phantasmagorical alien landscape and a portrait of EVK with a cat. His stern gaze pierced Ilona.
  An old, dying moon shone dimly through the snow-clouds from the window. Ilona saw it on the left and immediately remembered the omen: a moon shaped like an "S" over the left shoulder—death. Ilona Maksimovna had never believed in omens, but now the moon's position seemed to her a very important and ominous circumstance.
  “Death,” she said mechanically into the air.
  "What are you talking about, my love?" Antonio asked anxiously.
  "Who are you? What are you doing here?!" she pounced on the man lying next to her.
  He winced with resentment.
  "What's wrong with you, Ilona?" he asked hoarsely.
  She noticed that he was still speaking Spanish. But she also noticed something else: his words came out in a cloud of vapor and hung in the air, also written in Spanish.
  “It was a dream after all,” Ilona thought with relief.
  And if it’s a dream, you can enjoy it.
  She glanced at herself. Her body was youthful, without the hideous signs of old age.
  Relaxing, she turned to her husband.
  "It's okay, Tony. I just imagined something," she said.
  Her words, too, hung in the air, shimmering turquoise. Tony paid no attention.
  He stroked her chest and pulled her toward him. Ilona immediately felt a new surge of desire and grabbed him tightly around the neck. He jerked and groaned briefly.
  “What’s wrong with you?” she asked.
  "I pulled my neck at the dig today," he replied. "No big deal, white kitty."
  And again he pressed her tightly to himself.
  They kissed for a long time, rapturously, sitting on the bed. Then Tony's lips moved down to her neck, then her chest, her stomach... She felt his hot breath against her vulva and, moaning with sweet anticipation, leaned back and spread her legs.
  Never before had she experienced such intense pleasure—not with Tony, not with any other man, of whom there weren't many. She no longer sensed what particular manipulations her partner was performing that were causing her such a rapturous state; she merely soared higher and higher into an empyrean shimmering with impossible colors. And it seemed to last forever.
  She couldn't hear her own screams, forgot where she was, with whom, why, or even who she was. There was only an infinitely blissful state—not time, not space. And not a person.
  It all ended unexpectedly. Ilona suddenly found herself back in bed with her late husband, who had appeared out of nowhere. And now she was absolutely certain she wasn't dreaming. She wasn't awake either, but it couldn't possibly be a dream either.
  "It's not Tony! It can't be Tony!" a chillingly clear thought pierced her.
  She raised her head and looked at her stomach in horror. A strange head was moving between her thighs, and she could hear and feel the man continuing his work with a passionate purr, only now his actions were no longer arousing her in the least.
  Man?
  The head was grey, the haircut was short, but do men wear such hair?..
  The creature clinging to her raised its head, and Ilona screamed again when she saw the woman's face.
  She, seeing her fear, gave a short, wet laugh.
  "Incubus, shuccubus—what's the difference..." she said ironically in English, lisping coquettishly. "Nice to see you, Ilona Makshimovna."
  For some reason, Ilona felt slightly reassured by being called by her first name and patronymic. Even the fact that the woman who appeared in her bed responded to her unspoken, desperate, and absurd thought about erotic demons seemed right to Ilona.
  Meanwhile, the woman rose easily and sat up in bed. She looked quite cheerful and contented. She was far from young, but it was obvious she had once been considered a beauty. Even now, her face, with its slightly prominent cheekbones, chiseled nose, and almond-shaped, mischievous brown eyes, was quite attractive. And her naked body didn't look at all old—it was smooth and tanned, if a little too muscular for a woman and covered in profuse sweat. Her high breasts sagged slightly, her long nipples protruding.
  "Who are you?" Ilona asked almost calmly.
  While it wasn't a dream, it wasn't reality either, and so, she reasoned, there was no point in panicking until the situation became clearer.
  
   * Ilonsita, my white cat! (Spanish)
  10
  
  Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh. Mexico. Chichen Itza. November 2, 1990.
  Cromlech, of course, knew the name of Carlos Castaneda, which had become famous twenty years earlier when a book was published under his name, in which a young American anthropologist told a fascinating story about how he became a student of an Indian magician named... don Juan.
  Evgeny hadn't forgotten, and couldn't forget, the visions he'd had in his youth in the shaman's tent. Since then, he'd read a mountain of literature on witchcraft, shamanism, and the occult. He was, after all, one of the few people in the USSR able to obtain and read such books without hindrance, as they directly related to his scientific work. Some, however, had to be obtained through Stolyarov from special collections. In any case, Kromlekh read Castaneda's books immediately after their publication, when they were still fragrant with the scent of printer's ink.
  It's hard to say he was surprised to recognize the Indian who appeared to him as the hero of a book many considered a figment of the author's imagination. That his life was closely connected to supernatural manifestations was nothing new to Evgeny. After reading Castaneda's texts, Kromlech gained a deeper understanding of what Don Juan had told him in his vision (if it was a vision).
  Moreover, events constantly occurred in Yevgeny's life that he suspected were connected to "seers" and "warriors." True, he never met Don Juan again, but a mysterious man would occasionally appear in the Cromlech's entourage, engaging in ambiguous conversations with him, and other oddities would occur. Yevgeny tried to distance himself from this, refusing to be drawn into what he suspected was related to magic. However, he had to admit that it had already become a part of his life.
  So Castaneda's recent appearance didn't surprise him much. It was perhaps strange that he hadn't contacted him earlier.
  But an important question remained.
  "Where is Antonio?" Evgeny asked sharply.
  “He’s not here,” the magician answered calmly and smiled sweetly again.
  - Did you kill him?
  Kromlech watched Castaneda with narrowed eyes. He was already considering the possibility of a fight, although he had no idea how to fight a magician.
  "You don't understand, Don Eugenio," Carlos replied softly, shrugging slightly. "Antonio, as a separate individual, never existed at all."
  “Explain,” demanded Cromlech.
  Castaneda sighed heavily and made a strange gesture with his hands.
  "Antonio is a double. My double," he replied. "You've read my books and should remember this definition."
  "A dream body," Cromlech said, remembering. "A copy of the mage. An entity created from his energy, yet looking and feeling like the real thing."
  "Exactly," Castaneda bowed slightly again. "I created Antonio, knowing that sooner or later I would need him in my dealings with you. In fact, my benefactor, known to you as Don Juan, warned me of this. Believe me, creating a double is a simple matter for a sorcerer who knows what he's doing."
  He smiled slightly coyly.
  "I admit," he continued, "the take turned out well. The ones I've created so far have been a bit... er... aggressive. And maybe a little inadequate. But Antonio is a wonderful young man. Helpful and romantic. And, I assure you, quite passionate."
  His next smile was openly lustful.
  Evgeniya felt as if she had been doused with cold water.
  “Leave Ilona alone,” he hissed through his teeth.
  Castaneda shrugged.
  "Unfortunately, that's no longer up to you, or even me, really. Antonio's work is so successful that he can exist autonomously, and I can't dictate to him at all. And Señora Ilona seems to like him."
  The magician's mocking grin infuriated Cromlech, but he held back for now, waiting for the right moment.
  "What do you mean, it doesn't depend on me?" he asked.
  "Well, as I understand the situation, you intend to leave this world forever right now. And you need to do it right here and now—I assure you. Any other time or place won't work."
  - How do you know?
  "You remember my benefactor's visit, right? When you were still very young?" Castaneda began ingratiatingly.
  Cromlech nodded.
  "I must admit," the sorcerer continued, "don Juan was mistaken about you. He's made that mistake before, including with me. However, when he spoke with you, he himself was still quite young, though that didn't matter to him. Be that as it may, he thought it would be easy enough to track you down and nudge you onto the warrior's path. But it turned out to be far more difficult. He simply didn't take into account your devotion to writing. Just as he had mine in my time."
  "Why do you need to push me down any path?" Kromlech asked sullenly. "And what does writing have to do with it?"
  "Regarding the latter," Castaneda explained kindly, "working with notes for a warrior-seer is a very fraught undertaking. Writing something down yourself, as well as trying to understand the notes of others, means capturing a very dangerous part of yourself. And the stronger we become, the more destructive this part becomes. Warriors should not have any material possessions to concentrate their power on, but focus on the spirit, on truly soaring into the unknown. The ancient manuscript you deciphered is a weight preventing you from following the warrior's path. An additional and very burdensome possession in a world where you should have nothing but life and death."
  "What business is it of yours with me?" Kromlech asked with hostility.
  He lay in a relaxed pose, but his eyes closely followed his interlocutor's every movement. EVK was a sickly old man, a drinker and smoker, but he had no doubt he could overcome the strong young man standing before him. Moreover, he instinctively sensed that the man was wary of him.
  "Yes, don Juan didn't have time to explain the situation to you then, and you haven't given us the chance since," the sorcerer nodded. "The point is, you can correct a very unfair turn of history. We're talking about the time when the division between the new and old seers occurred. You call these events the Conquest."
  "How am I going to do that?" Cromlech asked.
  "Don Juan belongs to a very ancient lineage of seers," Castaneda began eagerly. "But there were many such lineages before. And they all greedily collected power from the world—until they became very, very powerful. It's unknown how this would have ended—for them and for the world. The affairs of sorcerers, of course, have little to do with other people not endowed with true vision, but they still greatly influence the outside world. At that time, in Central America, in the south of North America, and in the north of South America, something enormous was brewing, something that could have set history on an entirely different path. New peoples were born, civilizations were created, a unique cultural field developed. And at the heart of all this lay the magic of the seers. But then the Spaniards arrived, and most of the lineages of seers were interrupted—they were simply destroyed."
  "Why is that, if they were so powerful?" Evgeny asked, immediately remembering that he had already asked the same thing of don Juan.
  Castaneda shrugged.
  "The ancient seers were no match for the Spaniards—despite their ability to transform into animals, harness the forces of nature, and manipulate spirits. The Spaniards' culture was highly developed and rigid, so magic had little effect on them. Furthermore, they operated within a different cognitive field, in other words, a different reality."
  Evgeny thought the magician uttered the last sentence with hidden malice. However, he continued speaking freely, judiciously, and slightly mockingly.
  "Don Juan's lineage is one of the few that has survived. I continued it, and it will end with me—that's just how it happened... At first, he hoped you would continue it, but he soon realized that you couldn't be guided onto the warrior's path because of your fixations... And apparently, there's no need. You're already on the magical path, without being a sorcerer.
  - And where will he lead me?
  Carlos smiled again.
  “We don’t know,” he declared, dramatically spreading his arms.
  Evgeniy spoke a few words in Russian, which Carlos seemed to understand perfectly, as he smiled conciliatorily and said:
  "Don Eugenio, don't swear. We are not prophets, clairvoyants, or whatever you call them. We don't read the future. We don't read the past either... If you were in my place, you would understand history as a continuous, simultaneous process. For us, there are no concepts of 'was' and 'is'; everything is here and now. We are one with the ancient seers, and with those who will come after us. And even with those who have never existed in this world..."
  "So, you're divine beings, then?" Cromlech asked sarcastically. He was fed up with Castaneda.
  "No, not at all," the mage shook his head. "'Divinity' is a meaningless word. We are all mortal, and our end is tragic; in that, we are no different from you. We are simply able to trace the lines of force that make up the world, and thus understand the conventional past and the conventional future."
  "So be it," Cromlech nodded. "And what do you understand about me?"
  Castaneda looked at him intently.
  "A little, but important," he replied without his usual ease, speaking slowly. "You will find a crack between the worlds. You will pass through it. It will happen very soon. And you will change the world in such a way that all the lives we have lived will become irrelevant. For example, don Juan's line of teachings will not end with me. And also: the ancient seers will return..."
  "What's that crack?" Kromlech asked quietly.
  He suddenly felt very tired and afraid again. The inspiration that had driven him all these years had vanished.
  "Between worlds," Carlos repeated. "Between your world and the world of the diableros... the seers. Some sorcerers pass through it and remain in that world, no longer exerting any influence on ours. That's what happened to don Juan, and that's what will happen to me someday. But with you, it's not like that..."
  He fell silent and seemed frozen in thought.
  "And how?" asked Cromlech.
  "I already told you," Castaneda replied. "You will change this world. I don't know how, but it will happen. We call it the 'Passerby Effect.'"
  Both fell silent. It seemed the magician was giving Kromlech a chance to process what he'd heard. Meanwhile, Evgeny continued to succumb to the strange apathy that had descended upon him. He didn't even notice Castaneda suddenly approaching him, though he seemed to be standing motionless.
  Suddenly, instead of the melancholy anxiety that had gripped Evgeny, he was overcome with icy terror. Something inhuman appeared in Carlos's figure. It seemed as if a predatory, extremely dangerous beast had suddenly appeared in his place, its eyes glowing yellow.
  "Don't be afraid, Don Eugenio," the magician's voice became sharp, as if someone were dragging a knife across a sheet of tin. "We are still as mysterious and terrifying as this incomprehensible world."
  Now his laughter resembled the choking guffaw of a hyena.
  The terrible glowing eyes suddenly appeared right in front of Cromlech’s face, which was still in a stupor.
  "Just one more thing," the magician hissed. "Before you leave, you take off this!"
  Evgeny felt a strong hand on his neck, where the cord of the cross his mother had worn had been. He had remained indifferent to religion until now, even often denouncing it in arguments with believers. For example, with Lev, who went to church. But the silver cross, now completely black, never left his neck. He no longer even noticed it, as if it had become part of his body. And Evgeny had no intention of taking it off.
  “No,” he said clearly, looking into the terrible, bestial face.
  To his amazement, he realized he'd spoken it in Quiché. Moreover, the word came out of his mouth in the form of a cloud, with the corresponding Mayan inscription glowing red on it.
  “Then, my friend, I will kill you and eat you,” Carlos howled cheerfully.
  His hand pulled the cord with force, and the magician suddenly fell out of Evgeny’s field of vision, appearing behind him.
  An indescribable pain gripped Cromlech's throat—his adversary was attempting to strangle him with the cord from his cross. Meanwhile, Eugene remained just as listless and almost indifferent to what apparently meant his death.
  And Carlos continued to twist the lace, holding Cromlech on the ground with his other hand.
  And Eugene also felt his teeth on his shoulder, mercilessly biting into the flesh.
  An indescribable pain throbbed in his head, where the dent in his skull had been. Bright patterns flashed before Yevgeny's eyes, like a kaleidoscope. He gradually gave in to nothingness, feeling the life force flowing out of him and into his killer, who absorbed it with furious joy into his entire inhuman being.
  Suddenly, an ominous click sounded at the base of Evgeny's neck, just behind his trachea. He felt it more than heard it.
  "That's it. I've broken my neck," he thought, preparing to slip into oblivion.
  But he didn't slip.
  There was a buzzing in his ears, then a ringing, then a sensation of heat appeared in the sky. All sounds became incredibly clear, their power and dryness reminiscent of the ringing of a large, cracked bell. Evgeny seemed to vibrate and—suddenly—was freed from the enemy's deadly grip.
  It was as if he was looking down on the magician, who was furiously strangling and rumbling as he gnawed at the limp body.
  Evgeniy's passive, dull languor instantly gave way to a fighting rage. He—or rather, someone emerging from his body—raised his clasped hands and brought them down with terrible force on Carlos's neck. Carlos let out a piercing scream and, as if mown down, collapsed on the man he was killing.
  Evgeny, literally out of his mind, raised his hands again to strike, but the mage rolled away with incredible speed, jumped to his feet, and, after a few bizarre movements with his arms, legs, and entire body, leaped back into the thicket. From there, his yellow eyes glared at Evgeny, branches crackled, and then silence fell.
  And Evgeny again felt himself lying on the ground. His neck ached unbearably, his shoulder burned, as if predatory teeth were still gnawing at it.
  Kromlech turned his head with difficulty and saw that it was indeed so—a brazen, skinny coyote was tearing at his shoulder. Apparently, it mistook the prostrate Eugene for a corpse.
  "Hello, little coyote. How are you?" Kromlech asked hoarsely, unexpectedly.
  The beast instantly jumped back, flashing its mad yellow eyes at the man, and disappeared into the thicket.
  With difficulty, Evgeny rose to his feet. Pain continued to rip through his neck, both inside and out. Blood from his lacerated shoulder trickled down his arm and dripped onto the ground.
  Ignoring all these minor problems, Kromlekh strapped on his scuba gear and continued his journey through the jungle, which had plunged into pre-dawn silence for a few minutes, soon reaching the cenote.
  It was deserted and quiet here—as if on another planet, or as if people had abandoned these places long ago and never returned. Surprisingly, even at night, there should have been someone on the archaeological complex grounds. But all the workers were apparently celebrating the Day of the Dead somewhere. Only a monstrous moon, like a giant white skull, grinned over the square-topped pyramid of Kukulkan, whose dark silhouette loomed half a kilometer from the cenote. And on the other side of the sky, a small red star—Mars—glimmered piercingly and alarmingly.
  But Evgeny knew he wasn't alone here. His senses, heightened to the extreme, seemed to register the shadows of long-gone people and events. A multitude of ghosts inhabited this place—wandering, swirling in the moonlight, consumed by an insatiable thirst to recapture a life lost to nothing.
  There were others, too—immaterial, inorganic, and very powerful. They watched him from everywhere, silently threatening. Evgeny trembled, feeling their overwhelming, archaic power.
  The worst thing was not the feeling of opposing an ancient magical force, but the feeling that he was merging with it, that in fact he was one of these eerie, formless creatures lurking in the rocks or among the trees.
  However, the EVK had urgent business ahead of him, and he had no time to indulge in reflection.
  The well's perimeter was overgrown with lush vegetation, then the steep walls of a deep crater dropped away, with a thick darkness spreading out at the bottom. Evgeny knew that during the day, this still water had appeared as a large green spot, but now its surface had turned completely black, only occasionally gleaming with the occasional ray of moonlight.
  This was the entrance to the kingdom of Chak, the god of rain, greedy, eternally thirsty for the flesh of his victims. But for him, Evgeny, Ish-Tab, the patroness of blessed suicide, could open her arms here.
  He chuckled darkly at the thought and began methodically donning his scuba gear.
  He wasn't feeling well—perhaps because of the wild vision he'd had in the jungle. In any case, he was no less exhausted than if he'd actually endured a tough fight with a dangerous opponent. His legs were shaking, he felt nauseous, but he was determined to see this through.
  As he put on the mask, he felt the cord of the cross around his neck—the string that had so recently nearly killed him.
  "Or is this all a dream?" Evgeny thought. "No, it's not a dream." His fingers brushed against the throbbing scar on his neck.
  He wanted to take off the cross—it was hardly appropriate in the Mayan underworld. But he kept it anyway and promptly forgot about it.
  For some reason, he remembered the popular folklorist theory of the diver, a wandering myth common almost worldwide. It tells of a certain character—an animal, a bird, a man, or a god—who dives into the waters of the primordial ocean and pulls up earth from its bottom. From this earth, all land then emerges, where plants, animals, and people begin to proliferate, and generally all sorts of fun ensues.
  Standing on increasingly shaky legs at the very edge of the cenote and looking down, Evgeny grinned, imagining that he was that very Diver. That somewhere beneath these deathly waters, a new, shining world awaited him, which he would extract and bring to the surface, thus bringing happiness to the universe.
  “That’s unlikely,” he said to the universe and stepped into the void.
   11
  
  Ilona Linkova-Delgado. Nowhere, Never
  Clearly, this was no longer Ilona's bedroom. Rather, it resembled a dimly lit barn. It was quite warm and had a strange, faint odor. They lay on a sturdy, primitive wooden bed with a thick, hard mattress, but without any bedding. Next to it was a nightstand, also rough wooden, with small objects on it. The bed was raised, like a platform. Straw was generously strewn across the floor. A strange, bright, white-violet moon, small and round—not at all the crescent moon Ilona had just seen—shone through a large window under the roof onto the platform with the bed. Something glimmered to the right of the bed. Ilona glanced at it. It was a large shard of an old mirror, leaning against the wall. Beyond the supports of roughly worked sticks that separated the platform from the main room, it was dark; only the outlines of objects stood out dimly in the moonlight.
  “I think I’m real, but you’re not,” Ilona continued, looking closely at the woman.
  "Don't talk nonsense," she shrugged. "I'm as real as you are. And we're in another world. We got here by combining our energies."
  "Who are you?" Ilona repeated.
  — I'm Carol Tash.
  The name was vaguely familiar to Ilona. It evoked associations with the occult nonsense about Mexican sorcerers.
  “Carlos Castaneda,” Carol reminded.
  "Yes, there was one, Tash," Ilona said slowly. "She took over as head of Castaneda's sect after his death."
  Ilona Maximovna, of course, had little interest in modern occultism, but Castaneda's teachings touched on her academic interests. So she read. Secretly, it must be admitted, with some pleasure.
  “But you... you’re already very old,” she figured.
  Carol snorted derisively.
  "First of all, I don't care what you say," she said instructively. "Secondly, it's not a shekta, but a reputable corporation selling magic to non-mages. Shprosh creates an offer, you know... Thirdly, Carlito isn't dead."
  “They write that he died,” Ilona objected for some reason.
  She couldn't quite collect her thoughts yet, but the need to argue hadn't left her. It was all so incredibly terrifying that pointless bickering offered her a semblance of a life preserver in the ocean of blatant absurdity into which someone had tossed her.
  "He burned, he burned, in the fire inside," Carol explained readily, leaning back on the rough pillow and looking slyly at Ilona. "Now he's... in a different place. Like the one we're in now..."
  “I read that he died of cancer,” Ilona stubbornly insisted.
  "Well, yeah," Carol nodded. "His body was burned by cancer, his spirit was on fire inside, Carlito was gone... He could have done it differently, but your friend gave him a nasty slap on the neck when they were sorting things out."
  The woman winced and rubbed her own neck.
  "He moved me in an immaterial way, with energy," she explained. "You could say he fatally wounded me. If Carlos had lived like that, he wouldn't have made a fuss anyway. He decided to die of cancer. A good decision, I approve—it's reminiscent of hara-kiri. And I understand these things..."
  Carol giggled.
  "My friend?!" Ilona snapped.
  “Well, yes,” Carol nodded. “Don Eugenio. Cromlech.”
  A wave of heat washed over Ilona. She jumped out of bed abruptly. The straw crunched under her bare feet.
  Carol, too, rose in one fluid movement. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, hands on her thighs. She seemed completely unembarrassed by her nakedness, even enjoying displaying it.
  Unlike Ilona, who noticed, in the dim light, that her body was once again showing signs of her age. But that didn't matter to her now. Her head suddenly cleared.
  "So you were the one stalking Zhenya?!" she cried. "Where is he? Where did you put him?"
  “Calm down, calm down,” Carol waved her hand.
  Her hands and fingers were long and very beautiful.
  "I have no idea where he is. I can only guess. And Carlos didn't know. And not even Don Juan."
  "Did Zhenya meet Don Juan?" Ilona asked.
  Of course, she remembered who don Juan was.
  "In the Schne," Carol explained briefly. "They both saw the Schne in the Schne."
  — How are we now?
  Carol nodded.
  — Exactly. I saw you and came to you. And you were filled with the energy of your memories of your husband. We combined our energies—I didn't think you'd have so much of it. It seems your Tony was bringing out strong feelings in you... Or was he not Tony?.. It doesn't matter, the main thing is that we ended up here.
  “In another world,” Ilona continued for her.
  "Not shovshem," the witch corrected her. "Actually, this sharay is beyond time, space, and all worlds. A strange place... I never thought I'd be here again. We somehow ended up here with Carlito, a long time ago. We barely escaped."
  Her face twitched slightly, but then immediately became calm and cunning again.
  "So you attacked me?" Ilona continued to interrogate.
  "No, it's the CIA," Carol chuckled. "There's no point in using magic if you can get the job done by someone else. Magic requires a lot of energy, and that's at a premium."
  "So what do you want from us?" Ilona asked, confused.
  She was very scared.
  - So that you can clarify the codex of the ancient seer.
  But here Ilona did not hesitate for a second.
  “No,” she answered dryly, as if cracking a whip.
  "Don't rush," the witch laughed. "You don't understand all the details yet. We can pay, and pay generously. What difference does it make to you, other than curtains, that we know the meaning of the text? Your Eugenio is long gone. It doesn't matter to you anymore..."
  Ilona Maksimovna understood this herself, but resistance raged within her. It was completely illogical, if you think about it.
  “No,” she repeated louder.
  "We can give you an awl," Carol purred. "One you never dreamed of. You're single, right? You want to seduce any man you want? Or any woman, for that matter?..."
  The witch giggled lustfully as she saw the grimace of disgust cross Ilona's face.
  "Don't rush," she repeated softly. "I, too, was once extremely heterosexual. But now..."
  She shrugged her bare shoulder.
  "I can make you a hyperwoman," she continued. "You can reach orgasm even through one nostril. You're a louse, head to toe, and you'll only be wearing your vagina."
  Ilona felt a momentary wave of heat wash over her, but then she felt sick again. She quietly spoke a few words to Carol in Russian.
  She also looked at her straight in the eye, and Ilona saw that the witch’s eyes glowed green, like those of a large predatory animal.
  This time, fear did not suppress Ilona Maksimovna; on the contrary, it spurred her on, forcing her to throw off her paralyzing apathy.
  “You won’t get what you want,” she answered the witch firmly.
  Carol laughed again, but this time without the good-natured laughter. And for some reason, she suddenly stopped lisping, speaking clearly and matter-of-factly, without a hint of affectation.
  "I understand why Don Eugenio loves you," she said, flashing her terrifying eyes at Ilona. "You have much power. Just like him. We would leave you alone, but we really need that translation. We've known what the codex says for ages—all the world's major intelligence agencies have copies. Which means we do too. But only Cromlech and you, Ilona Delgado, can explain the meaning of the text. Don Eugenio is out of reach, but you can..."
  “You’ll have to think about it yourself,” Ilona told her.
  "Run! Run!" the thought beat in her head, despite the fact that there seemed to be nowhere to run.
  But she tried anyway. She turned sharply and, with the agility of a cat, descended the wooden ladder leaning against the platform.
  The moon had grown brighter by this point. However, Ilona seriously doubted it was the moon. Regardless, the situation became much clearer than it had been at first. The barn turned out to be quite large. Sacks and boxes were piled haphazardly along its walls, but the center, lined with straw, was empty.
  Ilona quickly glanced around. At the far end of the room, she spotted a door made of poorly finished boards and rushed toward it. She didn't care that she was completely naked, that something terrible might be behind it. "Run, run," she repeated to herself, lifting the wooden latch.
  "Stop it! Let something in here!" Carol shouted after her, but it was too late—Ilona creaked the door open.
  At first she saw little - she was blinded by the light after the semi-darkness of the barn.
  Yes, it was day outside, not night at all.
  So, the light in the sky was... the sun... At least, a star. Probably.
  Details of the landscape emerged gradually, as in the pre-digital photography printing process.
  A barren, rocky, sandy plain, broken here and there by gently rolling hills. Muted fawn, reddish, greenish, golden, and brown colors, with splashes of red, purple, and blue. All this beneath a ruddy sky, against which a bright spot of pale yellow light, tinged with a faint iridescent halo, slanted toward the horizon.
  Something majestic loomed on the horizon. At first, Ilona thought it was simply a large, solitary mountain, but the archaeologist's experienced eye immediately recognized it as a pyramid. A man-made pyramid. However, Ilona, who had seen the pyramids of Giza, Palenque, Teotihuacan, and countless others, had never beheld anything like it. It was a gigantic structure, surpassing all conceivable proportions, making the pyramid of Khufu seem like a small pavilion in comparison.
  There was something wrong with the pyramid, something Ilona subconsciously noticed. It wasn't even that it was narrower and sharper than the pyramids on Earth—like a stone dagger aimed at piercing the heavens. There was something else...
  On the other side, a flat hill of bizarre outlines was visible, in which, nevertheless, Ilona saw something familiar.
  But she immediately forgot about it, because very close by she saw a group of living creatures standing with their backs to the barn. It was strange that she hadn't noticed them immediately. Apparently, her attention was distracted by the unfamiliar colors of the landscape and the imposing pyramid.
  The creatures stood facing the hill, their backs to Ilona. They were giants, at least three meters tall. Their heads were grotesquely elongated, like those of cartoon characters. They were either wearing very tall hats, or perhaps helmets. Or both. They were clad in long, loose robes, the colors of the landscape and sky, billowing in the strong wind. When the material rose, powerful armor—carapaces or cuirasses—peeked out from beneath. Or perhaps parts of spacesuits. Because of the length of their robes, Ilona couldn't tell what the creatures were standing on—their lower limbs were hidden. Each clearly had two upper limbs, and they were rapidly moving them, either functionally or simply gesturing. It wasn't entirely clear what they were doing. Perhaps they were simply standing and conversing, gazing at the strange hill, or perhaps something else entirely. They weren't human...
  “They’re not people!” the thought exploded in Ilona’s mind and triggered a new, much stronger wave of horror.
  Until now, despite everything that was happening, deep down she was convinced that she was, of course, on Earth, in her only possible world, and that what had happened to her in the barn was someone's evil and sophisticated joke. This conviction remained firmly ingrained in her, despite the obvious fantastical nature of what was happening. But the barn was so earthly...
  However, the sight of living and sentient beings who were not human plunged her into the abyss of clear awareness that everything that was happening was exactly what it appeared to be. By the will of dark forces, she had been transported to another world.
  "Close the door!" Carol's angry whisper came right next to my ear.
  But for some reason, Ilona couldn't do it. Instead, she extended her hand outward. An incredible lightness spread through her entire body. It seemed to her as if she could reach the Great Pyramid with a single leap. She was about to leap, but then she glanced at her hand, sticking out from the doorway.
  It wasn't his own hand anymore. It was bluish, impossibly elongated, covered in what looked like horny scales, with long, clearly strong fingers, equipped with sharp claws and four joints. And between the fingers was webbing. On the wrists, something like a row of large suction cups had appeared.
  Suddenly, Ilona was overcome by an unbearable suffocation; she opened her mouth wide, but air barely entered her lungs. Her head went empty and pounded, a wheezing sound escaped her constricted throat, and her face seemed to expand from within. One of the giants turned around with lightning speed, like a striking snake. His robes fluttered like the wings of a fantastical bird, his armor glittering in the rays of the sun.
  But Carol grabbed Ilona forcefully by the shoulders and pulled her inside, dragging her deeper into the room and turning her to face her. The doors closed by themselves, and the darkness returned.
  Ilona felt like she had just woken up from a terrible nightmare: her heart was still pounding wildly, but she already understood that none of this was real.
  “I told you, it’s a dirty bag...” Carol said, whispering again.
  Ilona had already forgotten about its existence, but now she remembered.
  "Is this all real?" she asked the witch in despair.
  She didn't trust Carol and was wary of her. But she was human, after all, and Ilona instinctively gravitated toward her for protection.
  "That's a pointless question," Carol said coldly, shrugging. "Everything that happens, happens for real."
  She was pronouncing the words correctly again.
  "It's good that you fear me and don't trust me," she continued. "Isolation and mistrust are perfectly natural in this place. You will tell me what was in the manuscript when you realize it."
  Ilona, her heart hardening again, stubbornly shook her head. But then Carol whispered:
  “Look,” she said, pointing behind Ilona’s back.
  The barn doors opened slightly. Ilona was overcome with fear again—she thought the terrifying creatures outside were about to burst in.
  However, it was not them.
  She saw a boy. An ordinary earthly boy.
  He was thin, clearly tired and frightened, dressed in dirty gray overalls and baggy, burr-covered trousers. Dark stains, reminiscent of blood, were visible here and there on his clothes. His coarse, black hair was disheveled, with blades of grass and leaves caught in it.
  Ilona shuddered when she saw an ugly dent on his high forehead.
  "Zhenya?" She started to move towards him, but Carol stopped her with an iron hand.
  “Don’t come near, he’s not here,” she whispered.
  The boy looked around the barn in confusion, trying to adjust to the semi-darkness. His gaze slid indifferently over the two women, even though they stood two steps away.
  Finally, he seemed to decide on something, rushed to the far corner and began picking at the cement between two boulders at the base of the building.
  "It's Zhenya... What's he doing here?" Ilona whispered.
  "This is a strange place," the witch said again. "A crossroads of worlds."
  Meanwhile, the boy—Ilona no longer doubted that it was young Kromlekh—pulled a pencil case from his bosom and began to forcefully push it into the crack he had dug between the stones.
  Ilona Maksimovna had seen this pencil case before. She couldn't forget it.
  The renewed urge to rush toward the boy immediately faded. And the boy himself had disappeared—in his place was another man.
  No, the same—Ilona realized this when Evgeny... or his ghost... turned around again. He was older—not much, but noticeably. Gone were the threadbare pants and overalls; he wore absurdly wide trousers, a double-breasted jacket with shoulder pads, and his large shirt collar was pulled out in the most vulgar way, spread across the collar of his jacket.
  Then she realized Zhenya was taking out his pencil case, not hiding it. He was holding a wooden box.
  Suddenly, young Kromlech turned sharply and cast a worried glance around the barn. But he still didn't see the women. He turned his gaze back to the pencil case, opened it, and pulled out a manuscript...
  "What. Is. It. Written. There?" Carol asked loudly.
  Her speech changed again—horribly. It became creaky and mechanical, like the voice of a jammed machine. But there was a heavy, commanding quality to her tone that, Ilona immediately sensed, was very easy to obey.
  Forgetting about the ghost of Cromlech, she turned to face her opponent. For some reason, this proved terribly difficult.
  And it was even harder to look Tash in the face.
  However, Ilona understood that this was no longer Carol Tash, or even a person, but the personification of an incredibly ancient and hostile force. It was a perfectly clear conviction, arising from nowhere and for no apparent reason. The witch's face hadn't changed at all, but the feeling of her personality had changed terribly. Ilona had already felt a resilient aura surrounding her, one that had nothing to do with physical strength. But now it was a clear awareness of incredible, heavy power. Not even malicious—power of this level simply cared nothing for people, their feelings, and desires, and accusing her of cruelty towards people was like accusing a person of the same for casually squashing a tiny bug in the grass.
  "You. Tell. Us," the creature stated in the same eerie voice. "Or. Die."
  Ilona's whole body trembled as she gazed at the monster in the form of a naked woman. She wanted to run, but her bare feet seemed rooted to the floor. However, she managed to shake her head.
  “No,” she said barely audibly and repeated much more firmly. “No!”
  "Look. At. Me," the creature commanded.
  Ilona didn't want to watch, but she did it against her will.
  "I am. A man. I am. A woman," creaked in Ilona's ears.
  The creature grabbed her hand and placed it on its chest. Ilona felt the firmness of its flesh and the hardness of its nipple. She tried to break free, but the graceful hand held her with an inhuman grip.
  The creature's face came very close to Ilona's. Its eyes seemed to fill the entire space. No longer the bloodthirsty eyes of a predator, but gigantic, spinning wheels of fire, sucking Ilona in at a terrifying speed, despite all her resistance.
  Her lips burned like fire as the alien mouth sank into them. Ilona thought the creature was about to rape her, and she experienced a paroxysm of terror. But even greater horror gripped her when she realized her adversary's true intentions.
  Ilona was literally being sucked dry of information—along with her feelings, desires, memories, and even her soul. And there was no way to resist this nightmare.
  Or was there?..
  Ilona grew weak and swayed in the demon's arms as she continued to suck the life out of her. She realized this could only end in her death. In a desperate attempt to defend herself, she grabbed Carol by the back of the neck with both hands and began to press as hard as she could.
  A desperate scream rang out. Carol's voice was normal. Her arms weakened, and she retreated deeper into the barn, clutching her neck with a painful groan.
  "Kro-omlekh!" she screamed, and this time, for some reason, it was a man's voice, filled with pain.
  Suddenly, Carol began performing bizarre movements with her entire body, arms, and legs. The sight captivated the stunned Ilona, who was trying to catch her breath after the fatal kiss.
  The next moment, both Tash and the entire barn disappeared from her consciousness. Everything disappeared.
   12
  
  Top Secret, High Sensitivity. United States Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Transcript of the interview with Agent Caleb Jagielski, Chief of the Special Operations Center's Special Task Force, CIA, as a witness in the Polyglot covert operation. December 21, 2029.
  Senator Henry McKinnon, Committee Chairman:
  — We would like to hear your comments on the failed operation in Moscow on November 2nd of this year, which resulted in the death of one agent and the capture of two by the enemy, and subsequently resulted in the FSB uncovering part of our intelligence network.
  Agent Jagielski:
  "We... I underestimated the enemy. We failed to realize in time that Ilona Delgado had been under Russian counterintelligence surveillance for the past several weeks. However, in my defense, I can say..."
  Senator McKinnon:
  "No one's accusing you of anything yet, so you can save your excuses for the trial. The committee is currently determined to determine how the decision was made to carry out this absurd operation."
  Agent Jagielski:
  "If you're referring to the decision to capture Mrs. Delgado, I made it after a thorough analysis of the data revealed that the information we needed was contained only in her memory. We intended to interrogate Mrs. Delgado. I admit it was a desperate move, but the situation..."
  Senator McKinnon:
  "The situation is precisely what we don't understand. In fact, it's completely unclear, Agent Jagielski. An entire CIA team has been unsuccessfully chasing some ancient text for years, then trying to kidnap a learned lady... What's going on? Why has such a long-running intelligence project escaped our attention all this time? What is this document?"
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Let me start with the document. Its official name is Codex IV, but we call it the Doomsday Letter..."
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Who is this “you”?
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Everyone involved in Operation Polyglot. It's already... how can I explain it to you? Essentially, it's a kind of culture within the administration... A union of like-minded people, or something...
  Senator McKinnon:
  — A sect?..
  Agent Jagielski:
  — In this case, I would not give this definition a negative connotation.
  Senator McKinnon:
  "That's astounding! So you're saying that a secret group of fanatics has been operating within the depths of US intelligence for years?!"
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Sir, I wouldn't like to define it that way. Furthermore, please note that the activities of the Polyglot group are unconditionally sanctioned by management."
  Senator McKinnon:
  — The leadership of the Central Intelligence Agency?
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Originally by the Office of Strategic Services... by General Donovan in 1945.
   A surprised whisper among the commission members.
  Senator Marco Rubio ( after a pause ):
  "You're saying that at the end of World War II, amidst all the complex operations General Donovan's department was handling, he found the time and resources to create a team to study some ancient manuscript that hadn't yet been discovered? And a Russian scientist who was still a young student at the time?"
  Agent Jagielski:
  "That's exactly what I meant to say, Honorable Senator. I should clarify that the manuscript had already been found by that time, and we even had a rough idea of where it was hidden. And the future Professor Cromlech was already actively pursuing this topic."
  Senator McKinnon:
  "You understand that we'd like to know the details. And we're also quite curious as to why you possess this information. We understand that even your boss, the director of the department, doesn't have it. I suspect that the president himself isn't aware of it either..."
  Agent Jagielski:
  "I should correct you: President Cruz is aware. Generally speaking, as have all previous presidents since the group's founding. As for succession of access to this information, it is established by the so-called 'Dulles Memorandum,' the contents of which the outgoing head of the group is required to share with his successor. And only his successor."
   Another surprised whisper.
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Do you mean Mr. Allen Dulles?..
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Precisely him. He drafted the Memorandum, as far as I know, shortly after he became head of the CIA.
  Senator McKinnon:
  - You must provide us with this document.
  Agent Jagielski:
  - I can't, Senator, sir.
  Senator McKinnon ( after a pause ):
  — Are you aware of the consequences of your statement?
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Quite. However, I am following the orders of the agency's leadership, confirmed by several US presidents.
   Pause.
  Senator McKinnon:
  — The committee needs additional information. I declare a recess.
   After the break.
  Senator McKinnon:
  "Agent Jagielski, we will determine the extent of your responsibility later, but for now we will leave aside the contents of the document you call the 'Dulles Memorandum.' However, I demand that you provide as complete a statement as possible of the facts known to you that led to its creation and the creation of the Polyglot group."
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Even I don't have the full picture. I know that toward the end of the war, General William Donovan, head of the Office of Strategic Services, made contact with a certain Indian brujo."
  Senator Catherine Cortez-Masto:
  - Brujo?
  Agent Jagielski:
  - Yes, Senator, ma'am. That's what they call Indian sorcerers.
  Catherine Cortez-Masto:
  - I know...
  Senator McKinnon:
  — What nonsense are you talking about?!
  Agent Jagielski:
  — I'm stating the facts, sir.
  Senator McKinnon ( after a pause ):
  — Go on.
  Agent Jagielski:
  A brujo named Juan Matus provided Donovan with some information that he considered extremely important. However, at the time, his department simply lacked the resources to fully develop it. Donovan delegated certain steps to Mr. Dulles, who was stationed in Europe and had agents, including in East Prussia, where the key figure, Polyglot himself, was located at the time.
  Senator McKinnon ( nodding ):
  — Professor Cromlech. But he really was just a child then...
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Nevertheless, the general decided that this young man was of great importance. Just as the Codex-4 that had fallen into his possession.
  Senator McKinnon:
  "My grandfather knew Donovan. He was an Irish Catholic. They often believe in all sorts of nonsense—elves, leprechauns..."
  Agent Jagielski:
  "With all due respect, Senator, sir, as far as I know, General William Donovan was an extremely sensible man. However, I can speak from experience. I am a scientist and am accustomed to researching and verifying facts. Nevertheless, while heading the Polyglot group, I repeatedly encountered things that, in my deep conviction, cannot be explained by modern science... However, Mr. Dulles also took this information very seriously, and when he took over the CIA, he re-established the Polyglot group, which had been disbanded after Donovan's departure and the abolition of the OSS.
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Dulles also had contacts with this... Juan Matus?
  Agent Jagielski:
  — I know a little, yes. It was precisely as a result of these contacts that he drafted the Memorandum.
  Professor Michael McFaul:
  - Mr. Chairman, let me ask the witness a question.
  Senator McKinnon:
  - Please, professor.
  Professor McFaul:
  — Agent, in your opinion, was Russian intelligence at the time aware of the problem?
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Definitely yes, Professor McFaul. This became obvious after the Central Intelligence Group lost the agent in East Prussia who was guarding Polyglot. We knew Kromlech was heading there to retrieve the Doomsday Letter. However, the agent was eliminated by the Russians."
  Senator Cortez-Masto:
  "Agent, can you explain why this letter and its decipherment are considered so important? As far as we understand, it's an ancient text of purely scholarly interest..."
  Agent Jagielski:
  "The details are contained in the Memorandum, and I am not at liberty to disclose them. I can only say that the contents of the letter and the very identity of Professor Cromlech are of the utmost importance to the United States. In fact, the very existence of our country is at stake..."
   General noise.
  Senator McKinnon:
  "Gentlemen, I call you to order. In due course, we will demand the witness clarify this scandalous statement. Right now, our narrow task is to determine the reasons for the failure of the Moscow operation. Everything else is merely supplementary material for our investigation."
  Agent Jagielski, I understand you weren't involved in the Polyglot operation at the time. But you must know why this document, so important as it is, wasn't seized? Why wasn't Professor Kromlech recruited or, ultimately, captured? I get the impression your covert group has been wasting taxpayers' money for decades...
  Agent Jagielski:
  "It's not that simple, Senator, sir. Russian counterintelligence agents photographed the document before Kromlech got hold of it. We soon received these photographs from our people in the Russian MGB. However, at that time, no one, not even Kromlech, could yet read Mayan script. We tried to encourage the research of Dr. John Thompson, who was working on deciphering it in our country. However, as it later turned out, he was on the wrong track, and Kromlech beat him to it. Just as Don Juan had predicted..."
  Senator McKinnon:
  — But when Cromlech deciphered the Mayan script, Codex IV was read?
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Of course. But it yielded little—again, as the brujo predicted. The meaning of the text remained unclear, and only the Cromlech could explain it. That was our conviction."
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Yours?
  Agent Jagielski:
  - Mine and my predecessors.
  Senator McKinnon:
  - In that case, you should have worked more actively with the Cromlech.
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Sir, your papers contain a report on all the actions taken in connection with the Cromlech project. There were many... However, we constantly sensed the strongest resistance from the enemy, who controlled literally his every move. Furthermore, Cromlech himself is a difficult character to recruit, a scientist completely immersed in his work. In any case, he didn't respond to our usual methods. We gained some hope when he began a relationship with a graduate student, but he was completely unconcerned about being compromised; their relationship was completely open, and extracting anything from it was a challenge for us."
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Are you talking about the current Mrs. Delgado?
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Exactly about her. After the disappearance of the Cromlech...
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Admitted by you!
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Yes, sir, it's my fault, although his actions were unforeseen. So, after the professor threw himself into the well at Chichen Itza, we held out hope for a while that he'd previously shared the contents of the document with Mrs. Delgado, then Miss Linkova. We soon realized that wasn't the case, but in any case, our source was now constantly with her."
  Senator Rubio:
  — Do you mean your Mexican agent who became her husband?
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Yes, Antonio Delgado. We suspected he was playing a double game, but we used him because he was useful."
  Professor McFaul:
  — Did he work for the Russians too?
  Agent Jagielski:
  "No. I think he was part of the group of mages who gave us the initial information. For their own purposes, of course."
  Professor McFaul:
  — Magicians?.. Professor Jagielski!..
  Agent Jagielski ( shrugging ):
  "I'm stating the facts. Their interpretation is yours..."
  Senator McKinnon:
  - Go on, agent.
  Agent Jagielski:
  "Then there was a long period of calm. We were certain that Mrs. Delgado was completely unaware of the meaning of the Doomsday Letter—Dr. Delgado confirmed this. So we merely observed her, although this became problematic after his death. The Russians, too, showed no activity around her. Everything changed with her discovery a year ago of the chieftain's tomb beneath the pyramid of Kukulkan. We were certain—and remain certain—that the tomb's texts contained vital information, possessed only by Mrs. Delgado, due to her closeness to the Polyglot. Hence the attempt to seize her."
  Senator McKinnon:
  "Certain circumstances that came to my attention during the recess force me to suspend the witness's questioning for now. The committee members and invited experts will be notified separately of the next meeting."
  Agent Jagielski:
  — Mr. Chairman, may I make a statement?
  Senator McKinnon ( after a pause ):
  — We are listening.
  Agent Jagielski:
  - I don't think you'll hear my testimony anymore.
  Noise in the hall.
  "I mean, I won't be able to provide them. I'm already the sixth head of the Polyglot group since its founding. None of my predecessors survived more than a month after leaving this post. And after this meeting, I, too, will be forced to leave... I've long since resigned to this outcome, as I've been bearing the burden of extremely dangerous information for many years and am constantly confronted with facts that clearly confirm that our world, firstly, is far from the only one in the universe, and secondly, we are incapable of fully understanding its laws. It is my deep conviction that your investigation will end in nothing—like all others like it. Yes, they were..."
  There is unrest in the hall.
  "But the fact that the US Senate, which conducts such investigations, and other government bodies in our country, and our country itself, still exist is proof that our group's work is bearing fruit. Therefore, the Polyglot case remains open, and the group will continue its work. Thank you for your attention."
  Senator McKinnon:
  — Thank you, Professor Jagielski. I declare the meeting closed.
  
  The Bard Free Press, a publication of Bard College, Annandale-on-Hudson, New York, USA. January 7, 2030
  It is with deep sorrow that we announce the tragic death of one of our college's longest-serving faculty members, Professor Caleb J. Jagielski. While returning from New York to Annandale after Christmas break, he was involved in a car accident. The brakes failed on slippery roads, and the car crashed into a tree. He died instantly.
  Professor Jagielski led our college's sociology and anthropology department for many years and was one of its most popular lecturers, beloved by students. Today, we mourn his passing with his many students—our college alumni—around the world.
  It will be extremely difficult for all of us to come to terms with this loss, which has left a gaping void in our educational institution.
  
   Ilona Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Moscow. January 7, 2030
  Ilona found herself sitting in a chair at her desk in her office at the institute. On the opposite wall, a portrait of EVK, holding a cat in his arms, glared at her with fury.
  She looked around in confusion. There was no witch, no barn, no strange and scary world around him. Everything was familiar and proper.
  Except she was still completely naked.
  “Oh my God, how much I drank!” Ilona was alarmed.
  Okay, calm down, calm down. She was home alone, it was New Year's, she drank champagne and cognac. Not much. Then she took a tranquilizer, lay down... And then there was a terrible, crazy, unbelievable dream.
  It all makes sense. But how the hell did she end up at work?!
  Ilona looked out the half-closed window. The snow-covered roof of the neighboring building was visible. And it was broad daylight—as much as that was possible in wintertime Moscow.
  There was clearly someone behind the door in the hallway. Probably the secretary.
  "Oh, my God, did I really come here looking like this?! No, that can't be..."
  Ilona began frantically looking around, hoping to spot the things scattered across the floor. Yeah, cognac and Relanium—that's quite a cocktail. She could have gone crazy for a while, stumbled into the institute unconscious, and undressed in the office.
  But there were no clothes anywhere.
  Ilona jumped to her feet. She felt dizzy and slightly nauseous, but it quickly passed.
  On wobbly legs, she walked to the cabinet, opened it, and pulled out a set of underwear that she kept there just in case, old, worn-out work shoes, and a gray robe that she wore when she needed to work with ancient artifacts.
  Before she could even get dressed, someone fumbled with the key in the door, and it opened. The secretary entered the office. Or rather, upon seeing her boss, she froze in the doorway like a stone statue.
  "Il... Ilona Maximovna!" she said with difficulty, looking at her as if she were a ghost. "How did you end up here?"
  From her wild gaze, Ilona realized the institute hadn't seen her arrive. That was good. Now all she had to do was lie more convincingly.
  "I arrived early this morning—I had urgent business here. I locked myself in and got to work."
  “But today is still a holiday,” the bewilderment in the secretary’s eyes did not disappear.
  "So what?" Ilona asked, putting on a stern face. "You came today yourself, Sofia. Did you miss work too? By the way, Happy New Year to you."
  — Happy New Year, Ilona Maksimovna. I... I came here for your photo...
  — A photograph? Why do you need it?
  — For the p... police!
  Sophia suddenly burst into tears.
  "Ilona Maksimovna, you've disappeared. You've been missing since New Year's, from your apartment. No one's seen you," the girl said through tears. "At first, they didn't look for you, thinking you were just sitting at home over the holidays, not answering your phone. Then they got scared, broke into the apartment, and you weren't there! And your phone module was still there. And no one knows where you are! We reported it to the police today; at first, they didn't want to open a case, but the director made them! They asked for your photo. So I went to get it... And then you...!"
  A new, powerful series of sobs followed.
  "And they were right not to open a case," Ilona said calmly, but inside she was clenching. "So little time has passed..."
  "It's so little," the secretary continued to sob. "It's been a week already... It's the seventh today."
  Something snapped in Elon.
  "Sonya, it's okay," she said in a cracked voice. "Go call everyone, I've found you. I was at a friend's dacha, and there's no phone reception there anyway. I left the module at home, I have another one, without a phone. I just wanted to get away from it all."
  Continuing to sob, Sonya rushed headlong into the reception room, closing the door behind her.
  Ilona fell heavily into the chair.
  After sitting there for a few minutes in a complete daze, she pulled a vape out of her desk drawer and began filling the room with fragrant vapor at a rapid pace.
  A week... Seven days... Oh my God, what was that?! Where was I?!
  She'd been feeling some discomfort in her left leg for a while now, and it had now become unbearable. Ilona pulled her chair away from the table, took off her shoe, and examined her foot.
  It was a small straw that had gotten under my fingernail and was pricking my finger...
   13
  
  Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh. Mexico. Chichen Itza. November 2, 1990.
  ...Eugene flew through flooded stone corridors. His journey was truly a flight, or a floating in zero gravity. He had never experienced zero gravity, but he assumed that's what one would feel there, a lack of any pressure.
  The years had left him—he no longer had an age. He felt young and ancient at the same time.
  “Or perhaps,” the thought flashed through his mind, “I’m no longer here at all...”
  This was Xibalba—the Cold Staircase to the realm of the dead, where flesh crumbles and the human spirit, having dragged it along the roads of the world for so many years, is leveled. Here, the gods evaluate their creations, finding them too frivolous, and destroy them without mercy.
  "From earth, from clay, they fashioned human flesh. But they saw that it had failed. It was flabby, it was soft, motionless, without strength; it was falling down, it was weak; its head was completely immobile, its face was slanted to one side; its vision was completely clouded, and it could not see behind it. At first, it could speak, but it had no intelligence. It quickly became drenched in water and could not stand," phrases from the Popol Vuh persistently surfaced in his mind.
  Evgeny didn't know whether he'd been floating for minutes or hours. It felt like an eternity, gliding through the winding, intersecting passages. He didn't care about the return journey, because he knew he wouldn't return either way.
  He wasn't a very skilled scuba diver. Ilona had taught him diving in the Black Sea and often teased him for his clumsy attempts to master the underwater elements. So, if he'd been planning to return, he would never have swum so far. And, for that matter, he would never have dived into a cenote alone at night.
  That is, it is possible that he is in fact a very ordinary suicide, quite appropriately turning his thoughts to Ish-Tab...
  He seemed to be running out of oxygen. Black spots danced before his eyes, and at times it simply went dark, as if the light from a flashlight had gone out. A dull ache gripped his head, growing stronger. Soon, it was joined by a nasty ringing in his ears, turning into a constant hum.
  Swimming became increasingly difficult, and a leaden fatigue suddenly descended upon him. His movements became sluggish and ineffective.
  Apparently, he was dying.
  "Well," Evgeny decided, "the trip was interesting and educational. And this isn't the worst ending. It's just a shame it all turned out to be a lie."
  The Codex, Kukulkan's letter, a tent in a remote corner of the taiga, fly agaric girls and a sarcastic Mexican sorcerer, and the terrifying Castaneda... All of this was just the fantasy of a crazy introvert who had invented a special world for himself, intended only for him.
  Well, who cares!
  The suffocation was growing stronger—as if he were trying to breathe through a dusty, rough rag. The excess carbon dioxide in his blood triggered vivid visions, transformed from his pre-death memories. The darkness of the watery cave merged with the semi-darkness of the damp tent, the light from the flashlight became an ominous campfire in which spirits danced. The monotonous hum in his ears turned into the inaudible chant of a shaman.
  He again felt the hot embrace of the seductive fly agarics, but they merged with the embrace of all the women with whom he had been close in his life, starting with the German woman Monica, who had sunk into oblivion, and ending with... Ilona.
  Ilona... Lona... Cat Lona.
  He was forty-seven when she came to him. At first, EVK didn't single her out among his group of graduate students—yesterday's undergraduates. They all looked the same to him, all with undeveloped brains and incredibly meager knowledge. He only bothered with them out of obligation.
  But gradually, this twenty-one-year-old squirrel began to stand out to him from the gaggle of perpetually giggling academic youth. She asked pertinent questions, and occasionally even made insightful comments. And behind her youthful frivolity, he saw serious persistence and a genuine interest in his topic.
  Then he noticed that she was beautiful. Probably. Although Cromlech was no great connoisseur of female beauty. He had loved many women in his life, and even more women loved him. He never felt shy or awkward around them, and if they attracted him, he simply took them—sooner or later. Or—if they remained unapproachable for too long—he soon forgot about them. But what attracted him to them, he had no idea—he simply either wanted a woman or he didn't. Appearance remained a secondary factor. For him, a beautiful woman was a desirable one.
  And if he found Ilona's sharp cheekbones, slightly crooked bite, stubbornly protruding nose, smooth black hair and green eyes, neat hips, slender legs, rounded shoulders and small protruding breasts beautiful, then it turned out that he wanted this girl...
  This became perfectly obvious to him when she managed to embarrass him a couple of times with some girlish tricks. He didn't show it, of course, but in his heart he called himself an old dog.
  The cromlech was alone, completely alone, but loneliness didn't burden him in the least. The idea of starting a family, of having children, had never occurred to him. He always thought his life's path was so alien to the ordinary paths of his contemporaries that it would be a crime to drag others down with him. And what if he had children... What right did he have to drag their hypothetical lives into the terrifying vortex of his own?
  Perhaps, however, deep down he feared the suffering the loss of a loved one might cause him. He remembered the thick, suffocating melancholy he'd lived with for months after the death of his beloved Siamese cat, Aska, from old age. Two years passed before he decided to get another cat, despite his great love for them.
  He didn't let his friends get too close to him, though he would drink with them, have long, intelligent conversations until midnight, let them stay overnight, and share morning hangovers. They knew they could rely on him; he scrupulously fulfilled his duty as a friend when they asked for help, and he didn't forget to offer it himself when he felt it was needed. And then, burning with impatience, he returned to his work.
  And he didn't allow women to get too close to him. As soon as a relationship began, he was already wondering how it would end. Some affairs lasted quite a long time, and the women clearly believed it was something lasting, but they always ended the same way—they left. Moreover, they usually thought they were doing it of their own free will, that this fascinating man with an attractive appearance would become unbearable in a long-term intimate relationship with his sudden mood swings, strange words, and actions.
  And when they left, he would sigh with relief and throw himself back to work. Of course, not always—sometimes their departure left a nagging void in his soul. Which, however, healed rather quickly.
  The same thing was bound to happen to Ilona. At least, he was sure of it when everything began.
  The flashlight went out—for real now. Cromlech found himself in complete darkness, lost among the underwater tunnels. He would never escape; his body would soon hang there, caught on some root that had descended here from the world of the living, and become food for the voracious aquatic creatures here.
  He didn't care at all. His dying brain was reliving that very evening—his first with Ilona.
  She came to see him and his other precious copies—he couldn't possibly have brought them to the institute. He never considered how much of this was a pretext, both on his part and hers.
  They leafed through the pages, leaning over the table in the light of the desk lamp. Their hands occasionally touched, and he felt a jolt run through him. He sincerely convinced himself that he wouldn't make any advances toward this girl, confident that the growing desire would prevail, that they would simply look at the books, he would give her tea and candy, and she would leave.
  And what plans the girl herself had, Evgeny, of course, had no idea - like any man in a similar situation.
  They did, however, have some tea—with cognac. Evgeny felt light and happy. He joked, talked a lot, and it seemed he was telling interesting stories. At least, Ilona was looking at him with sparkling eyes. At some point, he instinctively took her hand and continued talking, playing with her slender fingers. Then, unexpectedly, he raised her hand to his face and kissed her open palm. Then...
  ...It was as if someone was guiding him, even though he himself desperately wanted to do what he was doing. He suddenly felt her mouth, their tongues connecting, at first fleetingly and timidly, and then intertwining in a wet embrace. Meanwhile, his hands slipped under her clothes.
  He didn’t even have time to finish his thought or finish his sentence, when the one who had just been his student suddenly became his woman.
  He didn't remember how they'd ended up in the bedroom, how their clothes had disappeared—everything seemed shrouded in a rainbow mist, glittering with gold and diamonds. He made exactly the movements needed at each moment, opening her body with his, and it opened. And when it opened completely, he threw himself into it, like diving into cool water in scorching heat.
  Lona screamed in pain, and he felt a piercing thrill of tenderness as he realized she was a virgin. He wanted to stop, but she stammered, "Yes, yes."
  And they took off.
  It truly was like flying weightlessly through enchanting rainbow nebulae. They both screamed loudly, washed over and over by colossal waves of pleasure so intense it almost became a desperate torment.
  They were carried into infinity with incredible speed, impossible in nature, while simultaneously remaining in complete stillness and absolute peace. And the stars blinded their souls with their fierce light.
  At some point, they both felt themselves becoming nothing, dissolved into the victorious cosmos, completely merging with its emptiness. And then came the final explosion, which turned their beings inside out, tore them into tiny pieces, reassembled them, somehow glued them back together, and left them lifeless on the rumpled and damp bed.
  The space odyssey has ended. The world has come full circle.
  Evgeny, reliving all of this before his end in Xibalba, suddenly felt a profound sense of regret. In contrast to his earlier, brave thoughts about a life well lived, he bitterly regretted forgetting that simple and true thought that distant night: the most important woman in his entire life lay beside him. Who knows where he would be now, had he accepted the inevitability that everything would be completely different.
  But his journey, begun in a dusty St. Petersburg courtyard, continued after that night. And now he was dying alone, and Ilona was far away—as if on the other side of the universe.
  It felt like he was motionless, though in reality he continued to float in the waters of the cenote. The Mayans called them "virgin" and believed that these caves were the very great womb from which all life emerged.
  “Lona... Lona...” Cromlech whispered in his delirium.
  To be born, one had to die, so the bottom of the cenote is strewn with the bones of drowned victims. Soon his bones will join them. But he will not be reborn.
  "Lona! Lona!"
  It seemed to him that he was screaming loudly, and in response to his screams, he was again covered by grandiose waves of unearthly colors.
  "Lona!"
  He was with her again, loving her fiercely and selflessly, looking with amazement, as if at a great miracle, at her detached face with closed eyes. The face of a dead angel. The face of a goddess rising from the dead.
  From the dead?..
  When did he witness the terrible metamorphosis that had befallen his beloved? She really was dead! A bloated, bluish-gray face with cadaverous spots, one eye tightly squeezed shut, the other half-open, revealing a dead, rolled-back pupil. An ugly, bluish-gray scar from a rope on her neck. The rope itself, coarse, made of agave fiber, hung like a weakened snake from her neck onto large, sagging breasts with blue nipples.
  And it wasn't Ilona, though she vaguely resembled her. Kromlech stared in horror at the dead Indian woman's face: high cheekbones, narrow eyes, a huge nose, and blue lips. A large cadaverous spot spread across her left cheek. Black hair on her deformed, elongated skull was tangled in disordered strands, looking like a nest of sleeping snakes.
  The most terrifying thing was that he couldn't stop the act of love. Crushing terror paradoxically merged with pleasure, and like a crazed necrophile, he continued his frantic movements within the cold flesh.
  Finally, the sensation of an impending eruption overtook him. It was intense and razor-sharp, almost painful. And it truly did hurt as he began to ejaculate into the dead body. The pleasure faded, leaving only fear and disgust; during the final convulsions, he nearly vomited.
  And then his terrifying lover opened her eyes, looking straight at him. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot, and her pupils gaped like black holes into other universes in which it was impossible for a human to exist.
  "Ish-Tab greets you, warrior," she said in a creepy, creaky voice in the Quiche language. "You have conceived yourself."
  The words visibly emerged from her mouth, filled with sharp, filed teeth and a swollen purple tongue, and hung like a cloud before the Cromlech. They were written in Mayan symbols. Along with them, a foul stench emanated from the deceased.
  Evgeny screamed in horror. He was shaking, weakened, and became limp, like a half-deflated rubber doll. He lay helpless and helpless on the cold body of the dead goddess.
  Ish-Tab laughed dryly and, removing the noose from her neck, placed it around Evgeny's, covering the small, darkened cross whose existence he'd just remembered and then immediately forgotten. He watched in horror as the rope wrapped itself around his neck, as if it were alive. And indeed, it was alive, and it wasn't a rope at all, but... a snake. Its head lifted, its angry eyes fixed on Kromlech, its forked tongue flickering, as if taunting him. By the narrow black stripe across its head, Kromlech recognized a totonacus—the Yucatan rattlesnake, venomous and dangerous. He felt the reptile's rough body slide across his skin and squeeze his neck, wheezing in agony as his vision dimmed.
  Ish-Tab's dry laughter, like the crackling of brushwood under heavy footsteps, rang in his ears. To rid himself of this deadly sound, Evgeny began mentally repeating from the Popol Vuh:
  — And the Great Mother and the Great Father, the Creator and the Maker, Tepeu and Kukumatz, as their names say, said: “The time of dawn is approaching; so let our work be finished.”...
  Before his eyes suddenly appeared a gigantic Serpent, sprawled across the black universe. It was covered in feathers that shone like jewels. Turning its head and looking at Kromlech with moist human eyes, it opened its mouth, from which erupted a forked tongue of fire. And words.
  The words continued the lines of an ancient epic. They flew from the monster's mouth and floated through space in flaming Mayan script: "...And let those who must feed and support us appear, the creatures of light, the sons of light; let man, humanity, appear upon the face of the earth!" Thus spoke they."
  The snake turned into a starry sleeve shining in the darkness.
  But it also went out, and darkness fell upon Evgeny.
  In which a tiny but very bright point was born. It grew, spreading into prominences, and finally became a blazing, vast rift, probably occupying more than one galaxy. Compared to it, Evgeny felt not even like an ant, but an insignificant microbe.
  But his horror passed, his body was no longer shaken by the disgusting tremors, it tensed and was ready.
  For what?
  He clearly understood that if he entered the fiery womb, he would cease to exist, completely. And with his whole being, he rushed there.
  The fire approached with incredible speed. This was the original, ancient fire, the furious dance of energy from which all existence emerged.
  - Membrane!
  When this thunderous word arose in the Cromlech, it seemed to him that his head had burst and its tiniest pieces had scattered throughout space.
  The next moment he was engulfed in primordial flame.
  He screamed wildly and ceased to exist.
   14
  
   Part two
   Ish-Tab Loop
  
  Evgeny Valentinovich Kromlekh. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 5, 1980 (12.18.7.2.12, and 6 Eb, and 15 Shul)
  — Kromlekh-tsin, how did you come up with the idea to write such a novel?
  The girl who asked the question was a typical Guanche—tall, slender, fair-haired, with a delicate face. Few such pure natives remained on the Fortunas—the local Caucasians had almost disappeared into the mass of Atlantoid aliens.
  “I wonder,” thought Cromlech, “if the Europeans had occupied Fortuna first, would the fate of the locals have been better?”
  In fact, the Islands of the Blessed were known even in ancient Europe, and before the Aztlans, the Venetians sailed here, but never established a foothold there.
  "Well, let's start with the fact that I wasn't the first to come up with this literary device," Evgeny began his answer, not quite realizing that it would be a good idea to include a plot involving the colonization of the islands... by the Spanish, for example. "This genre... it could probably be called 'alternative history.' It was invented by the Roman historian Titus Livy, who described a possible confrontation between the Roman Empire and the kingdom of Alexander the Great. I think such ideas arise at the turning point of eras, when a certain uncertainty is felt in society, even though, at first glance, everything is going well... But some people involuntarily ask themselves: 'What would have happened if...' For example, if the Mayans and other civilizations of the Atlantic continent had withdrawn into themselves? If it hadn't been the Aztlans who had sailed to Eurasia, but the Europeans to Atlantis? What would the world look like now? That's how my novel was born.
  "The world you've created is terrifying. The extermination of the Atlanteans, the dominance of Christianity, the cruel states created on our land by Europeans... And yet you describe it all with obvious sympathy. Do you really like this horrific world that much?"
  But this speaker is clearly Aztlan, and not even a local one, but from overseas. Here, in Eastern Aztlan, they had mixed considerably with Europeans and Africans, and it was immediately obvious. But in Great Aztlan, a purely Atlantic type still remained, as in the ancient frescoes—enormous noses, almost starting on the forehead, reddish skin, narrow eyes, stocky figures...
  The question was asked in a provocative tone; for the Aztlans, with their usual pretentious politeness, it sounded simply boorish.
  “It’s beginning,” thought Evgeny.
  He was prepared for this. One might even say he accepted the invitation to meet readers at Fortuna specifically for this purpose. His novel generated only moderate interest in Eurasia, but in the two Aztlans—and in other countries of both Atlantises—"The Man with the Cat" sparked a national outburst of emotion. Moreover, one part of society demanded that the heart of the vile European scribbler be ripped out in Teocalli, while another, significantly smaller but highly influential, admired the novel. The literary work suddenly brought to light the seemingly already-burned-out bitterness of the Great War.
  This was bad, of course, but excellent for promoting the novel. That's why Cromlech's literary agent insisted on his trip to the "enemy camp." At least to his outpost in the Old World—Eastern Aztlan, for starters. And Evgeny himself was interested in experiencing firsthand how his life's work was perceived by his former adversaries.
  “And the current ones too,” a thought flashed through his mind that he should have kept to himself.
  "Reader-tsin," he replied with a slight bow, the polite prefix sounding like a graceful reproach, "I don't think I wrote anywhere in the novel that I like this world. And that's impossible—after all, the story is told from the perspective of someone who knows nothing of another world. As for my own perspective, I believe that that world contains many terrible problems that the real world doesn't. For example, humanity is pushed to the brink of annihilation as a result of a potential war between superpowers wielding monstrous weapons. And in my fantasy, there were two terrible world wars, not one, as in reality... On the other hand, of course, there are sad phenomena in our reality that don't exist in that world."
  "So be it," the Aztlanian who had joined the discussion stubbornly shook his head. "But, in the opinion of many citizens of Aztlan, you despise my people!"
  "Really?" Cromlech said rather sharply now. "And what does that follow from?"
  Yes, this was exactly what Literary Agent Diana had warned about: they would send claqueurs who would provoke him. He had to try to endure this—Kromlech could quickly flare up and say the wrong thing. However, he knew how to control himself, and he swore to Di that he would use this skill.
  In fact, the topic was the Chilam Balam—the League of Scribes nominated Cromlech for this, the world's most prestigious literary prize. In the Great Aztlan, the league had a reputation as a gathering of freethinkers, albeit quite influential ones. Many of them were Buddhists or Taoists, others professed atheism, and a few even professed Christianity. There were even rumors that some of the league's members were secretly financing the Yucatan Cruzobs.
  In short, Cromlech had a chance of winning the Chilam Balam—many of the jury would vote for him just to spite Tenochtitlan. But he hoped he wouldn't lose it now...
  To suppress his simmering anger, Evgeny rubbed the dent in his head with his fingers. Then he looked out from the crowd and spotted Monica's worried face. He smiled slightly at her: "Everything will be fine."
  "Because," the hostile figure said coldly, "you deny our ancestors the right to develop civilization independently. In your book, they were never able to create states equal in strength to those in Europe, and were easily conquered by Christians."
  "But history could very well have turned out so that the conglomerate of Mayan cities wouldn't have created a single state," Evgeny replied softly, now composing himself. "And the peoples of Meso-Atlantis wouldn't have reached the open ocean. Which means they wouldn't have received new technologies from Southeast Asia, including metallurgy, domesticated animals, and everything else. Which means they would have remained in the Stone Age. And the Europeans would have easily conquered them... Remember that most Afro-Eurasian civilizations also arose and developed through cultural diffusion."
  "All this is highly debatable!" the Aztlanian said.
  "But I'm a writer," Kromlech shrugged slightly. "I have the right to my own interpretation, don't I? Or do I?"
  "Certainly," chimed in the meeting's moderator, a pleasant-looking young man, clearly alarmed by the escalating tension. "But let's ask our guest something else."
  The cromlech was grateful to him—it was becoming increasingly difficult to control himself. "A good guy," he thought. "What's his name again? Antonio... Yes, Antonio Delgado. And he looked at me with obvious respect, showering me with praise for the novel. Although God knows what he's really thinking."
  The white Aztlans had a reputation for being rather cunning and duplicitous. Cromlech, of course, understood that this couldn't apply to all of them, but he had encountered individuals who fit that description.
  - May I, Kromlekh-tsin?
  The woman appeared to be a squaw from the Iroquois Confederacy. However, Evgeny wasn't much of an expert on the anthropological types of Atlanteans—perhaps she was from Lakota, Araucanía, or Comancheria, or somewhere else. Oh well, never mind.
  "Your hero..." the reader began, "Yuri Knorozov... He reminds me a bit of you. I've even heard people who know you say he's very similar—in appearance and personality. Did you model him after yourself? Is he your, as they say, 'Mary Sue'?"
  The anger completely subsided, and Evgeny smiled to himself.
  "Considering my gender, it's still 'Marty Sue,' Qin reader," he bowed slightly. "But I have to answer your question—no. It's not even that my character and I have different life paths: for example, he was born in Ukraine, and I was in Siberia, or that our wartime destinies are completely different... Yuri and I are very different in spirit, aspirations, and behavioral patterns. Well, perhaps we share an interest in archaic history. And a love of cats. Although, perhaps, Knorozov embodies my childhood dream of becoming an archaeologist.
  His gaze caught Monica's face again in the hall. His wife of thirty years knew he wasn't being entirely sincere right now.
  And another familiar female face flashed before him, young, focused and—Eugene somehow clearly understood this—little interested in the actual topic of the meeting.
  But he immediately forgot about it—new questions, some well-intentioned, some not so well-intentioned, piled on. He joked, made sarcastic remarks, fended off attacks from detractors, and recounted in detail how painfully and meticulously, like an archaeologist with a brush, he had uncovered another world from the depths of reality. A world whose dreams had haunted him since childhood—ever since a stone had scarred his forehead during a yard fight.
  
   Ilona Linkova. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 5, 1980 (12.18.7.2.12, and 6 Eb, and 15 Shul)
  She barely heard what Kromlech was saying—her job was to listen and watch his opponents. And her trained eye literally pierced them like an X-ray.
  The girl who asked the traditional question at meetings with Kromlech, the gist of which was the passage: "How did the nonsense that is the idea for his novel come to him?" was obviously harmless. Being an ethnic Guanche significantly reduced the chances that she was working for the enemy. And her vasomotors indicated that she was genuinely delighted by the opportunity to ask the famous writer a question, but also very embarrassed. Certainly not a client of Ilona, Second Lieutenant Linkova, call sign "Laska," a special agent of the GRU General Staff of the Russian Empire.
  But this unpleasant Aztlan... Ilona knew who he was: Teteuctin Chimalpopoca. The fact that a career intelligence officer, Malinalco, was being used as a provocateur at a meeting with a Russian writer raised alarming suspicions. At the very least, it meant that a strong intelligence group from the Great Aztlan was operating on the islands. And Laska was completely alone here, without cover. The Center, apparently, didn't attach much importance to this assignment—to protect a famous and internationally scandalous writer abroad.
  "It's a complex project," her boss admonished her in his old-fashioned office on the third floor of the Glass House. "It's quite stubborn. But I don't see any particular problems there."
  Of course: the ideal assignment for an Academy intern is to be the guardian angel of some hack writer who, for some unknown reason, is of interest to the authorities.
  "Why don't the gendarmes deal with him?" she asked coolly.
  "Second Lieutenant!" the chief growled menacingly, and Ilona stood at attention.
  She wasn't particularly alarmed, however—Colonel Stolyarov wasn't a big stickler for formal relationships. And now, with a short sigh, he calmly explained the situation to his subordinate:
  "The neighbors didn't pursue him—he's a war hero, well-intentioned, and has no ties to troublemakers, terrorists, or other clients of the gendarmerie. He was part of some leftist group in his student years, but who's without sin?"
  The colonel glanced pointedly at Ilona, who lowered her eyes in embarrassment. He knew everything... As a young fool, she had once signed a petition to the government of the United Europe to pardon the notorious terrorist Ilyich Ramirez, nicknamed Coyote, languishing in a Burgundy prison. She had thought it all forgotten. Now she knew enough about the practices of terrorist groups to personally, without any emotion, shoot the scoundrel.
  "But for some reason, Aztlan intelligence is swarming around the Cromlech," Stolyarov continued. "And they're just observing; they haven't tried to recruit him. We suspect they're plotting some kind of provocation. And considering he's the leading contender for Chilam Balam this year, it could be quite a big deal. So, Second Lieutenant Linkova, it's all in your hands. Keep an eye on him, assess the situation, and act accordingly. You'll receive all the necessary materials from the office."
  “But, Nikolai Alekseevich...” Ilona began.
  “You’re free,” Stolyarov boomed, instantly donning the guise of a stern boss once again.
  “Yes,” Ilona saluted and ran out of the office.
  At first, everything went smoothly, and Ilona was even glad that, thanks to the Office, she had managed to have a wonderful vacation in the Fortunas. She easily led the Cromlech couple through the ancient streets of Chicomoztoc, shaded by the delicate rows of date palms. It's even surprising that the couple didn't notice the surveillance—Ilona relaxed slightly in the hot sun, with no signs of danger. Together with the Cromlechs, she visited the hundreds of souvenir shops that lined the city streets, wandered through the bustling market, peered into the numerous casinos with patolli and roulette, gazed at the Great Teocalli, visible from every point in the city, and went on excursions—through meadows overgrown with exotic flowers, and fields of sugarcane and corn. She visited charming villages with white houses under thatched roofs. I lay on golden beaches, went to concerts and museums.
  On the islands of Eastern Aztlan—its original territory, the first to be settled by the overseas invaders—life was now refined, with a touch of aristocratic laziness. The traces of the Allied bombings had already been erased, and the country had clearly recovered from its defeat—not without the help of its great western homeland, which had been much less affected by the war.
  The Cromlech couple behaved here like ordinary European or African tourists, and few people realized that the tall, dark-haired man of a certain age with a high, disfigured forehead and piercing blue eyes was a world-famous writer.
  However, he was still recognized periodically. They would approach him, ask for an autograph, and sometimes even hiss something malicious. In both Aztlans, Cromlech was always more well-known than in Europe or even Russia. In fact, he wrote some of his early works in Nahuatl, and they first saw the light of day overseas. He demonstrated a fantastic aptitude for languages even in early childhood, in Krasnoyarsk, Siberia, where he was born into the family of a Cossack colonel, a hero of the Japanese War. Ilona, who carefully studied the subject's file, remembered that he spoke not only Nahuatl but also Cholti, which served in Aztlan what Latin once served in Europe. He also knew Yucatec, Quiche, and several other Atlantean languages, as well as Atlantino, spoken in eastern Aztlan. Of course, the European languages—French, German, and English—were also present. It seemed that he also understood Arabic, Chinese, Japanese and Korean.
  So, during the war, he initially served as a translator in military intelligence. However, he was later transferred to the special forces, and Ilona knew that he had participated in several still-classified combat operations. As a result of one of them, Cornet Kromlekh was awarded the Order of St. George, 4th degree, and promoted to staff captain.
  He began writing as a child, and his first stories were published in the provincial newspaper and the Yenisei almanac. However, he had no intention of becoming a writer—he wanted to enroll in the Atlantic Department of the Imperial St. Petersburg University. At 18, he published an article comparing the imagery of the celestial serpent in Siberian shamanism and the ancient religions of Meso-Atlantis. But then the Great Patriotic War broke out, and Yevgeny Kromlekh, having completed an accelerated officer's course, found himself at the front.
  As a writer, he became famous after the war—first for his wartime stories, then for his historical novels about Russian Atlantis. And now this strange, captivating, almost otherworldly "Man with a Cat."
  As for Monika Kromlech, she had a rather unusual story. Yevgeny met her at the very end of the war in East Prussia, where the Russian army had surrounded an enemy group, and he was carrying out a mission within their lines. The village girl hid him in the barn of her parents' house. After the war, the young officer returned to the village and asked her parents for her hand in marriage. Deep down, Ilona—a perfectly normal girl, albeit a qualified imperial intelligence officer—was touched by this story.
  But things didn't work out well with their son...
  However, here on sunny Fortuna, everything was perfect. Until this meeting with readers, which broke into the radiant repose with a sharp dissonance. Ilona was in full swing with the legendary "intuition" of scouts—an ephemeral feeling, coming from an unknown source, but whose existence was not the slightest doubt among Second Lieutenant Linkova's colleagues.
  "Danger!" the red light flashed.
  And Ilona tensed, yet paradoxically relaxed. Now nothing that was happening in the room escaped her—the sounds, the facial expressions, the glances exchanged. She saw Kromlech glance at his wife and then back at her. "He's already seen me," the thought flashed through her, but quickly retreated to the depths of her consciousness—it didn't matter now. Chimalpopoca made a barely perceptible gesture with his fingers to someone behind him. Not the squaw who had asked about "Mary Sue"—she didn't seem to be one of his company. But the room was full of enemy agents—Ilona felt it with her very bones. "I wonder if they've spotted me yet?" Now that was important. It was very important. She was completely alone here. She had a contact, but he was out of reach now. And the most he could do was arrange for her and the Kromlechs to be evacuated through the Russian consulate.
  "Idiot, vacationer, you've let your ass down, you idiot," Ilona cursed at herself, but this rage was a secondary concern. It even helped her compose herself. Ilona feverishly sketched out a plan for the operation—her own operation. A mortally dangerous one. Which had already begun.
   15
  
  Blagoy with Ezoeeveli. Egrossimoyon, about ten million Earth years ago
  "There was nothing that existed, that could have existence; there was only cold water, a calm sea, lonely and quiet. Nothing existed."
  The lines in quiche continued to haunt him here too.
  But where is this - here?..
  He couldn't survive what had happened to him. It was impossible to survive something like that. Although he remembered only the insane, multicolored cosmic vortices that had torn him to pieces, that was enough.
  But he was alive, and it seemed he was still floating in the water. Not in a flooded tunnel—he was floating on the surface. He felt it with his whole body, even though he couldn't see it—it was dark.
  Evgeny took a deep breath. The air was damp, cold, filled with alien scents. It was easy to breathe, but... strange. And his body felt unfamiliar. He moved his hands and jerked away—improbably quickly.
  His arms weren't arms at all! They'd grown very long, covered in scaly skin. His fingers had also stretched out, now sporting four joints and long, sharp claws. And then there were the suction cups and webbing!
  He lifted one of his limbs and ran it across his shoulder. And it wasn't skin, but something rough and hard!
  The cromlech panicked and began to beat the water with all four paws and its tail.
  With a tail?!
  "Lord, I'm an animal!.. Lord, help me!.. I want to wake up!.."
  But it was not a dream.
  Now Evgeny could see—his eyes were adapted to it. The darkness had been illusory at first—he'd simply expected it to be there. But now he saw a strange reddish-orange world with multicolored flecks. It seemed he could even discern temperatures at a glance. Paradoxically, he could also see in the usual way—the contours, lines, and light and shadow that make up the image of the world.
  It was a gigantic underground lake, stretching into the invisible distance—a dark expanse devoid of a single rowan tree. The cave's vaults were so high they were lost in the swirling vapors.
  Silence reigned all around, but somehow Evgeny sensed that the lake was full of life. And that it was connected to other caves. That it was an entire inhabited world.
  The joy of discovery overwhelmed him, but then he glanced at his body and again collapsed into the madness of despair.
  "I'm a reptile! Oh my God! What should I do? Where am I?! Someone help me!..."
  Panicked thoughts darted chaotically, like a school of fry in shallow water. But then they froze, as a clear and precise answer came to them, appearing right in his head.
  "We are coming to you, Good One!"
  He saw creatures similar to himself swimming towards him and lost consciousness.
  "Thus was the earth created when it was formed by the Heart of the heavens, the Heart of the earth, as they are called, by those who first made it fruitful when the heavens were in a state of obscurity and the earth was submerged in water."
  
  In Praise of the Feathered Serpent. A lecture by Professor Jakub Jagielski at the Catholic University of Lublin. ‎. Lublin, Lithuania. September 18, 1979 (12.18.6.4.10, and 9 Ok, and 18 Mol)
  — Vitam, sirs! Few would likely argue that one of the most important events in human history, perhaps second only to the incarnation of our Lord Jesus Christ, was the Gathering of the Ring of Civilizations in the fourteenth century. In 1346, the ships of Ixtlilxochitl, the Tlatoani of Texcoco, who had rebelled against the Hueytlatoani of the Great Aztlan, Acamapichtli, and been defeated, appeared at the Azure Islands. The following year, they reached the Fortunas, then the African coast.
  Rumors of red-skinned warriors appearing from overseas reached Europe much later, but even then, Europeans, dying en masse from the Black Death, didn't realize the wheel of history had turned. Of course, Europeans knew that powerful empires existed far to the east, beyond the land of the Great Khan and even Cipango. But no one imagined that people from these mythical lands would arrive by sea from the west.
  ...Yes, yes, I understand that many of you have now wanted to correct me. Of course, the Earth's sphericity was no secret to scientists back then. Moreover, the idea of reaching the eastern lands by sailing west had occurred to many thinkers—Albertus Magnus, Roger Bacon, Pierre d'Ailly, Raymond Lully, Ibn Sina... However, these were a few outstanding minds, while the general public, including sailors skilled in such a voyage, found the idea alien.
  Of course, this would have happened sooner or later—probably by the end of the 15th century, when Europe had finally recovered from the Great Plague, the population had grown, and a shortage of resources began to be felt. And some European kingdom, say England, or Castile, having defeated the Arabs, would certainly have mounted such an expedition. Who knows how events would have unfolded then. But what happened was what happened—the Aztlans were the first to reach Europe.
  The fact that the Earth is a sphere was known on the Atlantic continent perhaps even earlier than in Europe. Kukulkan, for example, articulated this quite clearly in his teachings to his sons. It is known that the first Mayan voyages across the Pacific Ocean, which led to their discovery of Hawaii, also date back to his time, while Peruvians on balsa rafts were already visiting the southern islands of Oceania. However, in the Atlantic, Mesoatlantic sailors explored only the islands of the Taino Sea and rather cautiously explored the coast of South Atlantis. This caution was largely due to the warlike nature of the Caribs.
  However, the Aztlans had known for certain about the lands beyond the ocean since at least 1305 AD, when the remnants of Sultan Mamadou's fleet, equipped to search for new lands, appeared in the Caribbean. The fleet was scattered and partially sunk by storms along the way; the remaining vessels reached several islands. Most of the newcomers from Africa were killed by the Caribs, but some were captured and later taken to the Aztlan capital, Tenochtitlan. The captives soon learned to communicate in Nahuatl and told them about their country. Thus, Ixtlilxochitl's expedition, though reluctant, was not undertaken haphazardly. Its participants—or rather, their commanders—knew that the rich country of Mali lay ahead, and they also knew about the islands in the Atlantic, and a little about Europe. The simple sailors and warriors, of course, were driven by the idea of finding their ancestral homeland lost by their ancestors – the legendary Seven Caves of Chicomoztoc.
  So, yes, it was Eurasian-African peoples who first reached Atlantis—not to mention the earlier and long-forgotten Viking voyages to Vinland. Although their memory is preserved in Iroquoian legends, there is no evidence that this was known in Meso-Atlantis. There may have been other attempts, even successful ones, to cross the Atlantic from the east. But none of them had a significant impact on local cultures.
  Since the Aztlan warships appeared on the European coast from Africa, the Iberian Christians, then preoccupied with wars with Muslims, perceived the newcomers as just another Moorish tribe engaged in maritime piracy. The emergence of a third power in our world only became apparent when the Aztlans, relying on their fortuna base, conquered Mali and, having seized control of its vast gold reserves, first by sea and later by land, through Morocco, began their assault on the Pyrenees.
  By that time, they were no longer considered rebels and outcasts in Great Aztlán. New jongs arrived from overseas with reinforcements—mostly Caraíb mercenaries—gunpowder, "fire lances," heavy crossbows, and other military supplies. However, the common belief that it was their superior weaponry over the Europeans that played the main role in the Aztlán's success is not entirely accurate. After all, gunpowder was already known in Europe by that time, and cannons were used on the battlefield. But Europe was in the midst of a deep demographic depression following a plague that swept through it, wiping out up to a third of the population.
  Moreover, the powers of the European nations were undermined by the Anglo-French military conflict over dynastic matters, peasant revolts, heresies, the Great Schism of the Western Church, and the decline of the papacy's authority. The newcomers, by and large, had nothing to lose—no one was waiting for them across the ocean. They had to reclaim their home or die. "There is nothing better than death in war, nothing better than death in its prime, so precious to the Giver of Life: for I see it afar, and my heart longs for it," they said, and they acted accordingly.
  
  Eugene and Monica Cromlech. Aztlan Oriental, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 5, 1980 (12.18.7.2.12, and 6 Eb, and 15 Shul)
  The hot day gave way to a delightfully warm, balmy evening. Evgeny was tired but pleased – the meeting had gone beautifully. He had successfully fended off all the provocative questions, never really lost his temper, and the general mood of the audience seemed interested and almost friendly.
  — Mein Herz*, you were great!
  27 years of marriage to him did not rid Monica of her strong German accent.
  Evgeny glanced with familiar pleasure at his wife's lithe figure, completely unspoiled by time. And yet she was two years his senior... When they met, she was considered an old maid in the village. He didn't care: he'd dreamed of this Fraulein who had saved him one dark, rainy spring night, lived in anticipation of their meeting for the remaining months of the war, until the fall of Beladvalid, and came for her as soon as he could. Naturally, her parents couldn't refuse an officer in the army that had defeated both the mad adherents of the Prussian Führer and the infernal cruelty of the Aztlans. As for Zhenya's parents, they were certainly shocked, but he wasn't about to give in to their admonitions. And Monika—she was simply happy.
  But was he happy, Eugene Kromlekh?..
  “It’s all for you, mein Schatz**,” he smiled at his wife, and she smiled back.
  - Teacher, madam, are you satisfied?
  The white-toothed smile of the meeting's host, Antonio (spoiled only, as is the local custom, by a pair of gold crowns) was a little cloying, but sincere and friendly.
  "We are pleased, Delgado-cin," Evgeny bowed ceremoniously. "A wonderful evening, wonderful meetings."
  “I’m truly glad,” Delgado said, his smile widening.
  “We now have a small but solemn itakatl planned,” Delgado said, pointing to the entrance to the adjacent hall, where the select audience had already moved.
  Itacatl—"daytime snack"—was held in the European style, which had recently replaced the heavy and sedentary Atlantic feasts at such events. Appetizers were laid out on some tables, drinks on others; guests helped themselves to their own plates and glasses, moving freely throughout the room and conversing.
  Quite hungry and tired, Evgeny glanced with pleasure at the mountains of tamales piled high on the tables, bowls of ceviche and various salsas, dried charqui meat, fried barbacoa in enamel bowls, and piles of oranges, bananas, and dates, freshly picked in nearby Africa. That Aztlán Oriental was, in fact, an Afro-European country was further reinforced by the Maghreb sweets on a separate table: baklava, makrud cookies with figs, and other unhealthy indulgences.
  “Get me out of here quickly,” whispered Monica, watching her figure, devouring the Mshevka almond cakes with her eyes.
  “Just once is fine,” Evgeny chuckled, pulling his wife towards the tables, but Antonio, who appeared out of nowhere, intercepted them and led them to a separate table.
  Evgeny really wanted to relax with alcohol, and he saw no reason not to. The main alcoholic drinks here were mescal, which the Aztlans couldn't live without, and, of course, the famous island rum. Cromlech had no objection to the drink of the daring Fortunian pirates of the Middle Ages. But on the table reserved for him, as a sign of respect for a guest from the great northern empire, stood a frosted bottle of Russian vodka, fresh from the ice. And also a vase of black caviar, which cost an exorbitant amount here.
  Evgeny chuckled with satisfaction as he poured himself a shot. The teetotal Monica smiled indulgently as she sipped her chocolate.
  The ice-cold vodka exploded in his stomach with a warm flash, instantly engulfing his entire body, right down to his brain. Evgeny felt light and serene. Everything was perfect. He smiled at Monica, but then some people approached him with glasses, and his attention shifted to them.
  
   * My heart (German)
  ** Darling (German)
  
  Ilona Linkova. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 5, 1980 (12.18.7.2.12, and 6 Eb, and 15 Shul)
  Out of caution, Ilona didn't attend the itacatl, though she could have easily done so. But it would be too crowded—all her targets and as-yet-unidentified enemy agents, mixed in with civilians. And that would be extremely dangerous, in terms of exposure. On the other hand, "informal communication" is an excellent platform for all sorts of provocations. However, after all, there was a local consulate employee there—this Delgado. Preventing such things was, in fact, his direct responsibility. And Ilona didn't believe anything more serious would happen at the reception.
  So she took a seat on the veranda of the cafe opposite the cultural center where the meeting was taking place, grabbed a cup of champurrado, and began to observe.
  A river of carefree, happy-go-lucky people of all skin tones and tourists searching for evening entertainment flowed past. Many, including tourists, were dressed in the colorful pachuco style—multicolored, long jackets with enormous shoulder pads, lapels, and buttons everywhere, colorful shirts, sack-like trousers with long watch chains hanging almost to the ground, and wide hats, sometimes adorned with a bright feather. The women, even in their later years, were dressed even more flamboyantly. Their long dresses, in every color of the rainbow, often patterned, tight at the top and fluffy and adorned with frills at the bottom, seemed to cry out to the heavens that their wearers intended to remain forever young in this eternal and bountiful world.
  Ilona grinned.
  However, the pachuco style wasn't unique to Aztlán. Before the war, it spread throughout the world through Atlantean communities in Eurasia and other continents, though it had a rather sinister reputation. There was a stereotype that pachucos were exclusively Aztlán bandits and hooligans. Admittedly, this was partially true. Before the Great War, when tensions escalated, young people in Europe began to be beaten up by other citizens, and pachuco gangs responded. Numerous bloody clashes ensued. The war dressed half the world in khaki, and afterward, nothing was heard of the pachucos for a couple of decades. But in recent years, the style has begun to revive in both Aztlán and, little by little, in the rest of the world. The new generation simply didn't remember the past that lay behind these colorful rags.
  The streets of Chicomoztoc were unusually bright and noisy this evening. The sounds of guitars and even more ancient instruments—drums, gongs, rattles, and bone flutes—were heard everywhere. A vibrant procession, dressed in truly archaic clothing, covered in ancient Atztlan patterns and adorned with exotic feathers, passed by the café, spreading this loud, disturbing music.
  “Today is the Feathered Serpent’s Day,” Ilona remembered.
  Yes, an ancient festival dedicated to the god-chief, whom the Mayans called Kukulkan and the Aztecs called Quetzalcoatl. The Days of Sacrifice.
  “However,” Ilona thought with slight disgust, “they always have sacrifices everywhere.”
  Both Aztlans had long since passed laws prohibiting human sacrifice, but persistent rumors persisted that unofficial sacrifices were still carried out periodically, although perhaps less lavish and solemn than in the old days. Animal sacrifices and ritual bloodletting, however, never disappeared from Aztlan culture.
  Ilona put down her cup of half-finished champurrado and leaned back in the cane chair. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the gloomy, square peak of the Great Teocalli, looming over the city. A waning moon shone upon it, deathly.
  "A moon with an 's' means death..." An unpleasant thought about a stupid omen scratched at him and then vanished. Agent Lasky's "sense" was activated again, the red light blinking furiously.
  She saw her subjects, surrounded by a group of admirers, exiting the main entrance. Consular Delgado hovered nearby. Ilona shuddered as she recalled the oily gaze he'd literally licked her with during their only brief conversation. She had documents from the Russian embassy in Beladvalid, along with a cover story that she'd been sent from there to ensure that all went well with the Cromlech's visit. Incidentally, this cover story was true.
  But none of that mattered now. Out of the corner of her eye, Ilona spotted a small group of men hiding in the shade of the palm trees. One might have assumed they were just locals, unsure of what to do with themselves, but her gut instinct... It blared more and more urgently, and Ilona didn't so much see as sense their tension—very aggressive. She knew for certain, though she couldn't explain how, that they were waiting specifically for the Cromlechs.
  And she also realized with absolute clarity that at that moment someone hostile was closely watching her - she almost physically felt a heavy, cold gaze from the darkness.
  So, the enemy is keeping an eye on her, too. They won't let her take a single step if she poses a threat to their operation.
  From that moment on, Ilona became collected and calm. Very collected and calm.
  There was no time to scold herself. Although there was reason to. She had become too complacent. Indeed, the entire Russian Imperial intelligence service had become too complacent—during the tranquil post-war years, when defeated Aztlan seemed to be thinking only about integrating as successfully as possible into the human family. Of course, there was still good old Britannia, but her nastiness was predictable and habitual.
  But now Aztlan, apparently, had begun to act, and the matter—Ilon was literally overwhelmed by the realization—wasn't in the Cromlech. Not only in it, anyway.
  These thoughts flitted through her head like birds flying past an airplane, not affecting its movement at all. For Agent Laska had already begun to act.
  Still, she had already completed some of the procedures drilled into her at the academy, and she was now planning to put them to good use. For example, she had carefully studied the operational area, chosen a spot for observation, and mapped out escape routes in advance.
  Ilona glanced at the Cromlechs. Evgeny was talking with the squaw from earlier. They were engaged in a rapt conversation and seemed to have no intention of ending it just yet. Meanwhile, Delgado and a couple of other Aztlans were hanging around Monica. There should be plenty of time.
  Ilona casually opened her purse, pulled out a lipstick, stood up, and, ostentatiously leaving her purse on the chair, fluttered off to the restroom. There was nothing important or necessary in her purse: all such items were hidden on her body under—thank goodness!—the shapeless sundress that was fashionable this season. The lipstick, however, might come in handy.
  The bathroom window. Ilona had already confirmed that the frame wasn't securely fastened—the usual Aztlan carelessness. She pulled a leather case containing a multi-tool from under her dress and opened the screwdriver. A few seconds later, the frame and glass were leaning against the wall behind the toilet. Creeping silently into the dark and cluttered courtyard—an essential part of any home here—was even quicker. Last time, Ilona had studied the courtyard perfectly in daylight. It suited her perfectly, and its most prized feature was the dovecote rising above the outer wall. And there were no pigeons—apparently, the café owner had already roasted all the former inhabitants for the guests, and the new batch hadn't arrived yet.
  Carefully but quickly, Laska climbed into the birdhouse, decorated with intricate traditional carvings. It was dark and reeked of chicken coop. Ilona entered the wire-fenced enclosure through a small door. Her calculations were correct—the view of the area she was interested in from here was even better than she had imagined.
  It was impossible to spot Ilona from the brightly lit street, but for extra safety, she lay flat on the straw-covered floor, trying not to think about what would happen to her clothes afterward. For several minutes, the situation on the street remained unchanged: the Cromlechs were still conversing with the Aztlans, and the suspicious group of young men continued to hover in the shadows.
  But Ilona was primarily interested in the observer whose gaze she'd sensed in the café. She began to carefully scan the surrounding area, sector by sector, and soon found what she was looking for: something glimmered in one of the windows on the 12th floor of the pyramid-shaped high-rise with red Mayan-style walls, where the cultural center was located. Binoculars. Or perhaps a telescopic sight... Second Lieutenant Linkova shuddered slightly.
  She was certain the man sitting there was watching not only her, but also the group containing the Cromlechs. And it was unlikely he was connected to the other group hiding outside. It was possible, of course, but it was doubtful.
  The situation looked grim. Ilona had no choice but to approach the scene. She took action the moment she decided to do so. She took off her white jacket (though after the exercises in the dovecote, it wasn't quite so white anymore) and pulled off her sundress. She carefully brushed both out and turned them inside out. The floral sundress was paler on the inside, while the jacket was black—much less noticeable in the crowd, among other things. She tied the sundress's straps in knots, making it significantly shorter.
  The girl stood in a dark, filthy dovecote wearing only her special underwear—both her bra and her tights were cleverly designed elasticated support systems. The spectacle was surreal and erotic, though there was no one to appreciate it.
  She also quickly donned all her clothes again. The transformation was completed by a narrow belt tied under her chest, giving her a slight resemblance to a young lady from Pushkin's novels. Plus, she pulled out a pair of glasses with plain lenses from her vest. To top it all off, she thoroughly tousled her short hair, instantly creating a "fell out of the hayloft" hairstyle. Now, even if she were to come face to face with her, her pursuer would be unlikely to immediately recognize her.
  Silently descending from the dovecote, she quickly vaulted the low wall and disappeared into the impenetrable darkness of the narrow alley adjacent to the house. No more than ten minutes had passed since she had gone to the toilet.
   16
  
  In Praise of the Feathered Serpent. A lecture by Professor Jakub Jagielski at the Catholic University of Lublin. ‎. Lublin, Lithuania. September 18, 1979 (12.18.6.4.10, and 9 Ok, and 18 Mol)
  — The personality of Nezahualpilli, the third tlatoani of Eastern Aztlan and grandson of Ixtlilxochitl I, the discoverer of Europe, played a huge role in subsequent events. Thanks to his diplomatic talents and miraculous foresight (indeed, he truly belonged to one of the traditions of Atlantic seers), the Aztlans forged alliances in the Pyrenees with Castile, Portugal, Aragon, and the Muslim emirates, and, already during the reign of Ixtlilxochitl II, the son of Nezahualpilli, they subjugated most of the peninsula.
  In subsequent wars, they subjugated Gascony and Toulouse, after which Eastern Aztlan entered into a nearly century-long series of wars with England over Aquitaine. Soon, incidentally, the English attempted to establish themselves overseas, in Northern Atlantis. Sir Walter Raleigh concluded a treaty with Hiawatha III, Grand Sachem of Iroquoisia, establishing the colony of Roanoke on the east coast. However, a few years later, Sachem Metacomet, who had defected from the Iroquois Confederacy, destroyed the settlement, taking all the English into slavery. The next, more successful, attempt by Eurasians to penetrate Atlantis occurred only in the mid-17th century, when the Russians arrived.
  But let's return to our story. A pan-European coalition formed against the Aztlans. Its foundations were religious. But the newcomers themselves were also pursuing the path of monotheism, the dogma of which was finally formulated by Tlatoani Nezahualcoyotl, who, among other things, was an outstanding poet and theologian: "In the ninth ranks of the Cause of All, of us and of all created things, there is only one God, who created all things, both visible and invisible."
  Soon, the cult of the One Tloquenahuac—fully formed, presumably, not without the influence of Christianity and Islam—was adopted by most of the eastern Aztlans. It also spread overseas to their historical homeland. There, the concept of the "war of flowers"—the mass sacrifice of prisoners of war—had been abandoned. It had hindered the empire's development, as it alienated neighboring peoples. Moreover, this concept also encountered powerful opposition within Aztlan itself, among the followers of Quetzalcoatl-Kukulkan, who, as is well known, was a staunch opponent of human sacrifice. Incidentally, the Peruvian Inca Empire of Tawantinsuyu had suppressed this practice even earlier, which largely explains its success in its rivalry with Aztlan.
  Of course, this tradition has not disappeared and still exists, although it is officially condemned by the governments of both Aztlans. But after the 15th century of the Christian era, human sacrifices never again took the form of mass hecatombs. However, the Aztlans who arrived in Europe committed them frequently enough for both Christians and Muslims to perceive them as evil and bloodthirsty pagans. Furthermore, both sides were outraged by the adherence of many of the newcomers to traditional Atlantean schools of magic. The Inquisition shifted almost entirely from hunting heretics to combating seers. It should also be noted that the arrival of the Aztlans served as a catalyst for overcoming the schism in the Roman Catholic Church. And the first Pope recognized by all of Europe, Martin V, declared a crusade against the Aztlans.
  Their situation was dire: the Crusaders were pressing in Europe, and the Berbers and Arabs in Africa. Furthermore, they were engaged in an on-again, off-again war with England at sea and in southern France. The Aztlans were in danger of losing all their mainland possessions, remaining only on the islands. However, Tlatoani Cacamatzin pulled off a brilliant geopolitical somersault by allying with the Ottoman Sultan Selim I.
  Then the Turks, having finally subjugated Byzantium, intensified their assault on northern Africa and southern Europe. And despite the Muslims' negative attitude toward the Aztlans, their alliance against the Mamluks of Egypt and the Venetians, backed by England, was beneficial to both sides. This alliance continued under Selim's son, Suleiman the Magnificent, largely determining the military successes of the Turks in Eastern Europe and the Aztlans in northern Italy and the Low Countries. By that time, their army was considered the most powerful on the continent; the renowned Aztlan tercio was invincible. It was this new method of warfare, harsher and more pragmatic, that finally brought to an end the era of chivalry, with all its beauty and nobility.
  The tercios were made up of representatives of the Iberian peoples who had converted from Christianity and Islam to the Faith of the One Tloquenahuac. By this time, its priests had engaged in widespread proselytism—no doubt influenced by other world religions. This provoked even more intense opposition from Christian Europe—to the point that Western Catholics and Eastern Orthodox, usually opposed to each other, formed a united front against the Turks and Aztlans. Pope Sixtus V called on the Russian Tsar John V to join the Holy League, which he did.
  The efforts of the European nations, who briefly united their forces, bore fruit: the Turks suffered defeat at Lepanto, Vienna, and Molodi, while the Aztlans suffered defeat in the English Channel and at Rocroi. Their alliance disintegrated, as did the Catholic-Orthodox League. What followed was a long war between the Aztlan Orient and the Ottoman Porte over Egypt, weakening both sides and, in effect, saving Europe from division between the Aztlans and the Turks.
  These events shaped the course of history right up to the present day. It was then that the New Age began, and the political configuration of the modern world was created, which, with some modifications, still exists today...
  
   Eugene and Monica Cromlech. Aztlan Oriental, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 5, 1980 (12.18.7.2.12, and 6 Eb, and 15 Shul)
  Evgeny guessed correctly the first time: the girl was indeed Iroquoian. A Mohican from a sachem's family in a small town on the Muhekunetuk River, she was studying anthropology at the University of Manahatta. Her name was Lenmena. Cromlech found conversation with her easy and pleasant. In fact, after he'd downed his first shot, and then a couple more, a quiet joy descended upon him. The anxious foreboding and anger that had plagued him since the beginning of this trip receded, as if a heavy burden had been released from his soul. So he readily engaged in conversation with the young Atlantean. He even seemed to flirt slightly with her—joking and eloquently speaking, as best he could when he was interested in a woman, solemnly addressing her as ichpochticintli, "young lady," which sounded quite formal. It’s a good thing Monica was busy talking with his other readers and admirers and didn’t notice her husband’s playfulness.
  "Believe me, Ichpochticintli, I often have no idea where the realities of my novel came from," he assured animatedly. "For example, the islands we are on now are called the Canaries in his world..."
  "In ancient times, the Guanches who lived on this island were called Canaries," Lenmena interrupted, looking at the writer with shining brown eyes. It was difficult to understand how she truly felt about his words.
  "Exactly," Cromlech continued, "Canarias—from 'dogs.' A Moorish king sailed here before our era and found the islanders possessing a multitude of dogs. That's what they were called in my world... let's call it 'world two'—Canary Islands. But they were known in Europe long before that king and were called the Blessed, or Fortunae in Latin. However, I only discovered all this after I realized that the islands to which Ixtlilxochitl's jongs sailed from Aztlan in our 'world one' are specifically called the Canaries in 'world two.' And the main island is Gran Canaria, not simply Canaria, as in reality."
  “In my opinion, in your world... ‘world two’, Ixtlilxochitl lived a little later than in ours,” the girl noted.
  “Exactly,” Cromlech nodded, “and I can’t explain this detail either – it’s just there...”
  “So,” she raised her mysterious eyes to him, “you think that ‘world two’ exists somewhere, outside of your novel, as a given?”
  The question made Cromlech shudder inwardly.
  “You know, Lenmena-tsin, I’ve often thought about this myself,” he said quietly.
  The girl remained silent.
  The Ithacatl ended, and the guests, having ceremoniously bid farewell to the Cromlechs and the Delgados, departed. Evgeny and Monica followed the last group outside. Outside, they were embraced by the warm Chicomoztoc evening, ringing with loud, unfamiliar music, cheerful shouts and laughter, and exploding with a riot of firecrackers.
  “Yes, today is the feast of Kukulkan, aka Quetzalcoatl,” thought Cromlech.
  The month of Shul in the Mayan calendar. A month of celebrations, unbridled orgies, and abundant sacrifices. "Shul" means "end." It was once truly the last month of the year, but due to an astronomical inaccuracy, the ancient Mayan calendar, adopted by all the peoples of Mesoatlantis, steadily slipped in time, and now Shul resided at the end of summer.
  In fact, Aztlán—first the Eastern, and then the overseas—had already switched to the European calendar four centuries ago. But the people continued to live by the ancient calendar. The heavy hold of tradition...
  “I’m glad we don’t live three hundred years ago,” Lenmena said quietly, as if answering his thoughts, appearing nearby again.
  He immediately understood what she was talking about.
  "Three hundred years, yes... But originally, no sacrifices were made to Kukulkan. He himself was against human sacrifice."
  The official religion of Aztlán had long been monotheism, and the ancient gods were considered either incarnations of the One Tloquenahuac or, like Quetzalcoatl, sacred heroes. But the people still regarded them as gods, and no one particularly interfered.
  “Yes, the Greatest was against it,” the girl quietly agreed, lowering her eyes.
  Kromlech still had no sense of her, no idea what she was thinking. This was rare in his interactions with people—he was very perceptive. Sometimes they even said it was frighteningly...
  But what difference does it make? He'll likely never see that girl from overseas again.
  Evgeny politely bid her farewell and turned to look for his wife. She, too, had already parted from her companions and was approaching him. Only she knew how to smile like that: the smile itself was invisible on her face, just a hint at the corners of her mouth. But it was a smile, and no less enigmatic than that of Delavega da Vinci.
  Monica walked smoothly and beautifully, and Evgeny once again involuntarily admired her.
  "Well, mein Herz, have you conquered this red-skinned Fraulein?" she asked, and Evgeny, as always, couldn't tell whether the softly spoken question would be followed by a slap or a kiss.
  "And you, that golden-mouthed guy?" he asked in the same tone, and Monica laughed quietly.
  “I want to go for a walk,” she tugged at his elbow.
  Evgeny didn't object—he still felt wonderful. He wanted to carry this joy further, into the hot night, through the festive streets of this delightful city.
  And the city rang, sparkled, and grimaced. Processions of mummers and clowns, crowds of brightly dressed people. Cromlech had once been to a Venetian carnival. There, too, it was bright, loud, and beautiful, but somehow... not quite sincere. That celebration was like an antique behind museum glass—still as beautiful as ever, but now devoid of life. Just a monument. Here, everything was different—behind the somewhat hysterical joy, one sensed spontaneity and a yearning for life. Another thing was that it was juxtaposed with the anticipation of death, and this brought a sinister note to the proceedings.
  After the holiday of Shul, there are five "empty" days at the end of the year. A time of spirits, when one is not only forbidden from working, but also from leaving the house, washing, and combing one's hair. One would have to understand the Aztlans' obsessive cleanliness to understand that they call this five-day period "the end of the world" for a reason.
  But now the city, having recovered from the day's heat by evening, was indulging in reckless, even slightly hysterical, revelry. Soon it would reach its climax, and the yelps of sacrificial dogs would resound throughout the city. The unfortunate dogs were the totem animal of the month and were to be sent to the benevolent gods. The priests of the One wisely preferred to regard this as a respected folk custom.
  Eugene shuddered.
  “Let’s go to the beach,” he said to his wife.
  "I was about to suggest it myself," she replied. "I want some silence."
  "You're unlikely to find her on the beach here on a night like this," Evgeny chuckled. "But at least they won't be slaughtering dogs there."
  His fears were unfounded—the beach they reached was almost deserted. Apparently, all the townspeople and curious tourists were now huddled in the city. Later, of course, they would retreat here, blast loud music, drink rum and mescal, indulge in the illegal gambling game of patolli, writhe in sensual dances, light bonfires, and eat barbacoa. But for now, there was no one else on the unnaturally smooth carpet of mournful black sand.
  The tide was out, the water had receded, leaving a marsh stretching to the horizon. But the Cromlechs had no intention of swimming; they simply sat down on a boulder and fell silent.
  The tropical night breathed damply upon them. The ocean roared dully in the distance. There, beyond the horizon, lay Africa—a world of gold and sand, medieval salt cities, oppressive teocalli, Buddhist stupas. And Russia was even further away. Now it seemed to Evgeny that Svyatoaleksandrovsk, a nine-hour flight away, didn't exist at all, that this masterpiece city on the shores of the Izhora Gulf had once simply been a dream. How he dreamed so many things: golden-domed Moscow, immersed in quiet piety, the shaggy mountains and colossal rivers of Siberia, the endless steppes of Mongolia, the snow-capped valleys and bizarre canyons of the Russian Atlantis... All of this was unreal, like his other dreams—of another world: a city with the strange name of Leningrad, Moscow's ziggurats piercing the sky, mad despots, tireless executioners, and a strange guy, like himself, who adored cats...
  — Now Yura would be twenty-six...
  Monica's quiet voice pierced him like an electric shock. For a moment, he felt rage, which was immediately replaced by a dull melancholy... Why did she remember?!
  The pain of losing my son hadn't diminished in eight years, hadn't even dulled. It simply sat inside, like a raging volcano, occasionally erupting in searing lava. Admittedly, this happened less and less frequently.
  He didn't know how Monica felt—they never talked about it. She probably felt even worse.
  Without looking, he placed his hand on hers.
  "He would have liked that," he began. "He liked that kind of... He loved distant lands, exotic things..."
  Evgeny felt like he was talking dry, false nonsense.
  Their son, Yuri, truly enjoyed exotica. Only after his death did his parents discover that he had spent three years in an underground cult of worshippers of the Aztlan goddess Ish-Tab.
  Evgeny wished he could forget his son's terrifying face as he pulled Yura from the noose after his ritual suicide. But he remembered it all too well. Unlike the days that followed. Apparently, Evgeny had then fallen into a peculiar form of catatonia, which periodically overtook him after a childhood head injury: he seemed to retreat somewhere, to distant chambers deep within his personality, and hide there, while his body continued to speak and act in the outside world, giving no indication that it was not being controlled.
  At least after Yura's death, the authorities noticed the widespread Aztlan cults among the youth and began to investigate them. Investigation into the group Yura belonged to led to an intelligence agent from the Great Aztlan...
  Eugene felt the pain devouring his wife.
  “Nika, nothing can be fixed now,” he said with difficulty after a pause.
  “Yes,” she responded deadly.
  They fell into silence again, but the peace had already left him.
  However, the irritation and bitterness gradually subsided. Evgeny was once again overcome by the quiet but intense joy that had been simmering within him all evening.
  He took a deep breath and hugged Nika, who didn't pull away. Evgeny stroked her head and neck. He felt young again, wildly in love and bold. His caresses grew more and more explicit. And Nika's body clearly responded—it tensed for a moment, then became fluid and yielding. Evgeny lifted his wife's head by the chin and looked into her shimmering gray eyes, seeing in them the same desire that was already raging within him.
  He brought his face close to hers—very close, almost touching. Her eyes became his universe, and he drowned in them, dissolving in the rolling waves of joy that felt like magnificent rainbow nebulae.
  Monica let out a soft cry. Evgeny continued to rapturously embrace her until he sensed something was wrong. He struggled to emerge from the ocean of passion that was engulfing him and looked into his wife's face. A dead face. Beautiful, delicate, reminiscent of an Etruscan statue—but utterly dead.
  Deep shadows fell beneath her closed eyelids, and a ruby drop appeared from the corner of her mouth. Evgeny watched in horror as, like a chick's beak piercing an eggshell, a black, blood-stained tip emerged from between his wife's previously perfect, white breasts, each with its delicate nipples. A warm splash splashed onto Evgeny's bare chest.
  He let go of Nika and stood up abruptly. As if some obsession had lifted, he saw himself from the outside—standing over his wife's corpse, surrounded by several armed killers who had crept up silently.
  What was he thinking when they went to that deserted beach?!
  But it was too late to think now. There were four of them. The one standing opposite him—short and stocky—was clutching a long, bloody Fortuna knife. Evgeny restrained the urge to lunge first at Nika's killer, spotted a club descending from the corner of his eye from the left, and dodged it, simultaneously delivering a spinning elbow to the right. He couldn't see the man standing there at all, but the blow seemed to have landed—a pained groan was heard, and the attacker staggered back.
  But the fourth, who had approached behind the others, was already nearby. A square-built black man, wearing dark glasses despite the night, a long snakeskin jacket with a boutonniere, and a wide-brimmed red hat with a parrot feather. Evgeny saw him clearly and distinctly, although he only had a split second to do so. The black pachuco raised a flat stick, the edges of which glinted in the light of the city lights reaching the beach.
  "They still use macuahuitl, like the ancients. Only now, instead of stone, there's steel around the edges." The thought was abstract and calm, which, under the circumstances, seemed completely insane.
  But Evgeny didn't bother to delve into the vagaries of psychology—while making his military-historical observation, he simultaneously jerked sharply to the side, and the club that should have inflicted a deep wound on him whistled past.
  He kicked the one with the knife down, but then Kromlech was finally struck on the shoulder with a baton. He received a glancing blow from something like brass knuckles on the right side of his cheekbone, and then another blow from the baton on the left side—this time to the head. Evgeny sank to the sand, but managed to trip the handsome man with his legs and knock him down. However, the handsome man immediately jumped up and raised his macuahuitl again.
  "That's it," Evgeny thought with a strange sense of relief. He was ready to die and even glad that he wouldn't have to live without Nika.
  There were four soft clicks in quick succession. Pachuco shuddered, froze, and collapsed right on top of Evgeny, crushing him with his weight. Stunned, Kromlech instinctively tensed, throwing the body off himself, jumped up, and looked around. Three attackers lay sprawled on the sand, two motionless, one still twitching. The last one was running as fast as he could toward the city.
  Two more clicks, and the runner felt as if he'd been given a strong push from behind. He fell face down and remained there.
  Evgeny spun around and saw a young woman wearing glasses. He clearly saw the dirty stains on her sundress, hiked up almost to her waist on one side, revealing a slender leg, the straw tangled in her disheveled hair, and the beads of sweat on her stubbornly protruding nose. She held a revolver in both hands.
  He had seen this girl before.
   17
  
  Ilona Linkova. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 6, 1980 (12.18.7.2.13, and 7 Ben, and 16 Shul)
  She once again glided invisibly behind the Cromlechs through Chikomoztok at night, only now it didn't feel at all like a vacation on an exotic island. To her surprise, the group of guys hiding in the bushes didn't follow the couple as they strolled down the street. Others were watching them—at least two. At least that's what Ilona saw. Maybe there were others. Maybe they were watching through optics from windows. Anything.
  Or maybe she was mistaken, and those guys weren't really interested in the Cromlechs? No, her gut instinct still told her otherwise. But in any case, she had no choice—she had to follow her targets.
  The couple was simply strolling through the evening city, carefree and aimless. Ilona kept them in sight easily, unlike those who were watching them. One, a frail and poorly dressed man, was clearly quite skilled at surveillance; Ilona kept missing him. The other, a large, flamboyantly dressed black man, was less skilled and served as a useful landmark for the girl.
  Meanwhile, the Cromlechs stopped, exchanged a few words, and turned down a side street leading to the ocean shore. The black man followed them, and Ilona lost the frail man again. But she no longer cared about him—she followed the Cromlechs and their pursuer to a small, almost deserted beach with black sand.
  The black man, however, had also disappeared somewhere. This worried Ilona, but she couldn't split into two. She had to keep an eye on the couple. Which is what she did, disappearing into the coastal bushes.
  The cromlechs sat down on a black boulder and looked out to sea. Everything seemed to be going well. Ilona relaxed slightly. She was dead tired—her whole body ached, her head felt heavy. She sat down right on the sand, no longer caring about the safety of her sarafan—she'd have to throw it away after today's exercises anyway.
  Her thoughts were jumbled with fatigue; she leaned her back against the trunk of an acacia tree, but immediately straightened up, realizing she was about to slip into sleep. Something else caught her attention, some new, quiet sounds. Ilona peered cautiously from the bushes, and a hot wave of embarrassment washed over her. The cromlechs on the beach were making love. They were still sitting, but both were now naked to the waist and tightly entwined in an embrace. Ilona felt uneasy and turned away. And there was something else in her reaction to the scene before her. Could it be jealousy?
  Whether it was the Smolensk woman's embarrassment or jealousy—all these emotions, harmful to a scout, played a cruel joke on her. When Ilona raised her head again, horror overwhelmed her. A group of men was quickly but very quietly approaching the deaf and blind couple. Among them was the same black man she had lost, holding a strange flat club. Before the girl could do anything, they had already surrounded the Cromlechs. Ilona saw one of the attackers swing his arm sharply behind Monika.
  From that moment on, Ilona's fatigue and confusion vanished without a trace. She acted with coolness and precision. From the vest strapped to her waist beneath her sarafan, she pulled out a silent "Grumbler" revolver—the latest secret development of the Tula gunsmiths—and Agent Laska dashed out of the bushes.
  The attackers didn't notice her—they were trying to deal with Kromlekh, who fought unexpectedly fiercely and skillfully, knocking down a couple of his opponents. And Ilona thought they weren't even planning to kill him. But that didn't matter. A few meters short of the melee, she raised her revolver with both hands and fired four bullets, barely aiming—missing was impossible. The first two hit the black parrot that was raising its hand at Kromlekh, the rest at the other two. The fourth—the same puny islander she'd lost first—turned and ran. Ilona wanted to shoot him with her last bullet, but she restrained herself—she couldn't remain with an unloaded weapon. She lifted the hem of her dress, pulled cartridges from the elastic pocket on her hip, quickly reloaded the revolver, and shot the fleeing man twice in the back. He fell facedown and didn't move again.
  She was very angry—she'd been tricked for the second time that evening. Now everything was clear: when the Cromlechs turned onto the beach, the watchers realized where they were going. Then the frail one ran to warn the others, and the black man hid, like Ilona, in the bushes, waiting for the rest of the group. Then they attacked.
  But she would analyze the events in detail later—in Stolyarov's office—and that process didn't promise to be pleasant. For now, she needed to somehow mitigate the consequences of her catastrophic failure.
  The cromlech stared at her with a crazed gaze. Ilona would remember this moment until her death: the black beach, the twinkling stars, the roar of the approaching tide, and a man, naked to the waist, covered in blood, his posture expressing extreme tension, his face filled with despair.
  “We have to go,” she said hoarsely, lifting her sundress even higher to hide the revolver in her waist belt.
  But Cromlech, without answering, rushed to his wife’s body.
  She was dead—Ilona knew it immediately. And Kromlech certainly knew she was dead, but he continued shaking her by the shoulders, still silent, only emitting a suppressed groan through clenched teeth.
  This embodiment of despair made Ilona's heart ache with pity, but she sternly repeated:
  "She's dead. We have to go. There will be others here soon."
  Kromlech seemed unheard. But it was only his appearance. He lowered his wife's hand and, to Ilona's surprise, took the hand of her dead killer. The next second, she, too, saw an archaic tattoo on the dead man's wrist—a hanged woman with her legs bent.
  “Ish-Tab,” said Cromlech in a dead voice.
  Ilona knew the significance of this Aztlan goddess in his life. She approached the other dead man and looked. He had the same tattoo. And all the others.
  “These are some kind of fanatics, we’ll sort this out later,” she said.
  The cromlech raised its face.
  “I don’t care who they are,” he said quietly.
  His eyes were like fiery pits, his features sharpened, shadows sharply outlining the dent in his forehead. Ilona shuddered—never before had she felt such pure hatred.
  “Let’s go,” was all she could repeat.
  “I need a weapon,” Cromlech said commandingly.
  She knew he was stressed, inadequate, and dangerous. But something in that voice... or those demonic eyes... Basically, she felt she couldn't resist him.
  She had to lift her sarafan again to retrieve the Glock 17 hidden on her other hip—her former adversaries were now selling their weapons in abundance in Russia. This time, she suddenly felt embarrassed at being naked in front of Kromlech, but he didn't pay the slightest attention to her body, merely impatiently extending his hand.
  “Okay,” Ilona thought, “after all, an armed combat officer wouldn’t hurt me right now...”
  He tucked the pistol into the back of his belt and threw a shirt over it, picking it up from the sand. There was blood on the shirt too, but the stains were hidden by the mottled fabric.
  “Let’s go,” he said now and walked along the beach, without looking at his wife’s body anymore.
  They quickly and silently reached the thicket and stopped there.
  "What is your name?" Kromlech asked unexpectedly.
  "Is this important?" Ilona asked.
  The cromlech behaved in a way that was not at all according to a psychology textbook.
  "You've been following us since we arrived, so you know who we are," he said curtly. "Naturally, I want to know your name."
  Ilona was shocked - both by his reasoning in such circumstances, and by the fact that he, it turns out, had “copied” her a long time ago.
  But, of course, she tried not to show him her surprise and briefly introduced herself:
  - Ilona.
  And then she was shocked to find herself giving her real name—even though she had no right to in such a situation. This man had a strange effect on her...
  "GRU?" he asked again.
  She just nodded.
  - What's happened?
  Cromlech's voice wavered at this question. The girl saw tears welling up in his eyes. He was a living person, after all...
  "I... I don't know," she admitted. "I was just covering for you."
  He looked at her silently for a long moment, and she felt a painful shame.
  "Are Smolensk girls the only ones working at Steklyashka now?" he finally said quietly.
  Ilona was ready to disappear into thin air. But he had already changed his subject:
  "I was drugged with itakatl. Something coca-based, I think. I didn't notice I was being followed. And I didn't see you... Although I should have."
  His face twisted for a moment, but he immediately pulled himself together.
  “This shouldn’t have happened,” Ilona said.
  Kromlech made an impatient gesture with his hand, as if brushing away her words.
  “It happened,” he said harshly. “What next?”
  Agent Laska had also overcome her reflexes. She needed to continue working.
  “To the city,” she answered. “There’s a man there who can help us.”
  “Lead the way,” said Cromlech.
  Ilona walked on, inwardly amazed at how this man had managed to become the main one in their tandem in just a few minutes.
  
  In Praise of the Feathered Serpent. A lecture by Professor Jakub Jagielski at the Catholic University of Lublin. ‎. Lublin, Lithuania. September 18, 1979 (12.18.6.4.10, and 9 Ok, and 18 Mol)
  But was such a development inevitable? No, and once again, no! Historians, of course, don't recognize the subjunctive mood, but I recommend you read a remarkable work of literature—the novel "The Man with the Cat" by the Russian writer Yevgeny Kromlekh, which meticulously and thoughtfully describes an alternative history of humanity, in which the peoples of Atlantis lagged behind in development and were first reached by Europeans, who conquered them and destroyed their cultures.
  I admit, it's not very academic of me to cite a science fiction novel, let alone recommend it to students. However, Cromlech somehow intuitively grasped the most important moment in the history of not only the great Mayan culture, but also all subsequent Meso-Atlantean civilizations, and indeed the peoples of the rest of Atlantis. He doesn't explicitly state this, but when analyzing his novel, it becomes clear where the bifurcation point lies—the moment where real history and the writer's imagination diverge.
  We are talking about the colossal figure of the Feathered Serpent—Kukulkan-Quetzalcoatl, whom the Atlanteans rightly call the Greatest. The novel doesn't describe him in detail—in the alternate world, he wasn't nearly as significant as in reality, and, furthermore, he lived several centuries later. And it was precisely from this discrepancy that the terrifying yet fascinating world created by the Cromlech was born. Indeed, without Kukulkan's influence, it's impossible to imagine the powerful civilizational upsurge that befell Atlantis in the first millennium of the Christian era. This may not seem obvious at first glance, but let's take a closer look.
  As you know, humans arrived on the Atlantic continent later than on other continents—about thirty thousand years ago. And for a very long time, the human population there developed in isolation. Individual random infiltrations from other continents played no significant role, either genetically or culturally.
  We also know that the development of the Atlantean peoples was, up until a certain point, quite slow—compared to Afro-Eurasia. Why is this? Was it because the Atlanteans were more stupid? Nothing of the sort—the exiles from Aztlan in the 14th century, as already mentioned, possessed more advanced technologies than the native Europeans. Or let me remind you of the well-known fact that one of the three or four places on the planet where writing was independently invented is in Central Atlantis. However, if we compare the historical process on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean in absolute chronology, it is clear that while Afro-Eurasia already had developed states and even empires, the peoples of Atlantis were only just transitioning from an appropriative to a productive economy. While the Iron Age reigned throughout Eurasia and much of Africa, stone remained the basis of Atlantean industry, with only a few places, and very slowly, beginning to shift to copper and bronze. The Atlanteans did not use the wheel, and even the bow and arrow were brought to them from Asia by the Inuit, who arrived in Atlantis considerably later than the rest of the population.
  Of course, it wasn't a matter of laziness or weak intellect on the part of the Atlanteans. They grasped new things quickly and reliably, as demonstrated by the spread of the bow, which quickly appeared among the peoples of both Northern and Southern Atlantis. To answer the question of why this lag occurred, let's consider the specific example of the wheel mentioned above. The Atlanteans knew its principle, but used it... as a children's toy. But how else could they have used it? To create wheeled transport, draft animals were necessary—harnessing people to carts is unproductive, after all.
  But why didn't the Atlanteans have livestock? Why didn't they domesticate horses, cows, pigs, sheep, and a host of other animals, as they did in Eurasia? For the simplest reason: in both Atlantises, there were almost no wild animal species suitable for domestication. Or rather, there were far fewer of them than in Eurasia. As a result, the Atlanteans domesticated only turkeys in the southeast of Northern Atlantis, as well as llamas and alpacas in the Andes. And some other small creatures, like guinea pigs or the jaguarundi cat. The dog, however, arrived with the first humans who settled Atlantis.
  But the Atlanteans' greatest misfortune (or perhaps their greatest blessing, depending on how you look at the development of civilization) was that horses had become extinct by the time humans arrived on the continent. Whether humans exterminated them is unclear. And when the first horses harnessed to carts, and then riders, appeared on the Eurasian steppes, these animals were no longer present in Atlantis. But you can't build a large empire on foot... Or rather, you can, but very slowly. Which is precisely what happened in Atlantis until roughly the middle of the first millennium CE.
  For centuries, civilizations in the southwest of Northern Atlantis, the Mississippi Valley, Meso-Atlantis, and the Andes, all relatively advanced but lagging far behind their Eurasian counterparts, slowly replaced one another. Until, in 552 CE, during the heyday of Mayan culture in Central Atlantis, a man named Kukulkan appeared in the city now called Chitzen Itza, but then known as Yucuabnal.
  
   Blagoy - Kukulkan. Yucatan. Yucuabnal (Chichen Itza). 9.5.18.10.16, and 12 Kip, and 4 Kech (1 November 552)
  After an eternity spent in the blinding nothingness of the blazing abyss of primordial chaos, he stood in darkness and peace, contemplating the miracle of his consciousness.
  “I am,” he just realized.
  This was the first and most serious step. It got easier after that. Because if he exists, then there must be something that is "not him." Right?
  It seems he was able to return to existence...
  Wait. Has he been there before?
  Yes, and very far away. But perhaps it would be better to say "long ago"?
  Who cares.
  Now he could pronounce the name of the place as Egrossimoion. In reality, the word sounded completely different. In fact, it didn't sound like anything at all.
  Or maybe it was actually Xibalba?.. It seems that this word is more appropriate here.
  And he's not there anymore. Because?
  Yes, because I passed...
  "Membrane!" the grandiose word thundered back into my memory.
  He passed through the Membrane again and here he is.
  And where?
  Well, at least in the water. Although he didn't vanish into fiery oblivion from the water. No, he was... It was dark, cold, and very creepy there. Something bad, something wrong, was happening there...
  He forgot everything. Okay, he'll remember later.
  His sense of body returned. He felt his strong paws, his massive yet flexible tail—a perfect balancer in the waters. His healthy gills steadily absorbed the life-giving liquid.
  He was naked, like he was at home. But... he wasn't there. He shouldn't be naked.
  And, in the end, who is he anyway?!
  "I am the Seelie," he didn't say it, but drew it in his mind. The mental image was clear, vivid, and quite recognizable.
  He succeeded - he went out a different way!
  And did he get where he was aiming for? Perhaps. However... here he shouldn't be a Seelie. Here he should become... what was it called?..
  Yes, a human. From Ezoeeveli. That is... yes, from Earth.
  And if this is Earth, he is not a Good One, but...
  But is he still in his body? Why is he breathing in the water and balancing on his tail?
  All this needed to be clarified. Which meant we had to move on.
  No sooner said than done. The Blessed One arched his entire body and began to glide through the dark, watery tunnels, weaving between stalactites and descending plant roots that resembled execution instruments.
  But swimming was hard—much harder than usual. He felt as if he were sluggishly floundering in waters that had somehow thickened to the consistency of syrup, rather than gliding swiftly through them, almost without resistance, as usual.
  "The force of gravity is much greater," he guessed.
  This alone indicated he was on Earth. Again. And soon it became completely certain—when a glimmer of light appeared in the water.
  The Good One shuddered for a moment, thinking that he was once again seeing a reflection of THAT all-consuming flame through which he had passed eons ago.
  But it looks like he was just approaching the surface and saw sunlight.
  And so it was—from beneath the water, he gazed at the ripples on its surface sparkling in the sun. For a man—even one accustomed to diving—the sight was delightful. And for him too—he hadn't been spoiled by the reflections of the sun on the waters...
  Where the water ripples were brighter, the place appeared darker; where they were weaker, it appeared lighter. The world's negativity...
  But he shouldn't have seen it that way...
  He surfaced, carefully poked his head out of the water, and could now gaze upon this very earthly world. Although for now all he could see was a round hole through which a blinding sky was bursting.
  And dark figures at the edges of this hole. Living creatures. Egrosi... No, people!
  Blagoy felt vibrations coming from above, disturbing the molecules of the liquid enveloping him. These were sounds—he knew what they were and could distinguish them. The roar of a crowd, and something resembling music... Yes, it was indeed the music of a multitude of strange instruments—rustling, squeaks, strumming, and rhythmic pounding.
  But he didn't perceive meaningful signals from minds as he was accustomed to. Because people don't have the ability to emit them.
  He also had to accept it, so they didn't know he was there. And they couldn't see him with their eyes in the murky water, standing with their backs to the sun. He, however, saw them perfectly well. And above all, he saw him standing on the edge of the hole.
  A female. Small—like all of them. Dressed in very brightly colored clothing, but with an open... what's that... yes, nutrient glands—they feed the young with their bodies. A thick, colorful cord encircled her waist, the end of which trailed somewhere behind her. Her eyes were closed—it seemed to him that she was present only in body, not spirit.
  The female was enveloped in clouds of smoke, also rising from the surface. The smoke had a pungent odor—not unpleasant, but... unusual.
  But the smoke soon disappeared, and with it the roar of the crowd and the music died down. Someone shouted something loud and sharp, and the female... no, the girl jerked and fell!
  She fell into the water not far from him, raising a cloud of sparkling spray, and for a moment he saw a face bloodless with horror.
  "Leenmiin!" he mentally called out, but the drowning woman did not hear it.
  Now he finally remembered who he was, where he'd been before, and why he'd come here. Yes, now was his chance!
  Blagoy let out a menacing hiss and jumped out of the water onto the steep wall of the well, clinging tightly to it with the powerful suction cups on his paws.
  However, the jump was also much harder for him than usual. Nothing surprising.
  He began to quickly move his paws, rising upward, from where screams of horror were heard - he was finally seen.
  But he ignored them—climbing was difficult, though to a human eye he was doing it with astonishing speed. A thick, colorful cord stretched beside him, descending downward. It was still twitching—the girl in the well continued to fight for her life.
  Finally, his head rose above the edge of the well and the bright... Adelinaam... no... yes, the sun struck his eyes. He wanted to cover them with his third eyelid, but... he no longer had a third eyelid.
  He no longer even had the suction cups on his paws—they were gone. He rose just in time and crawled to the surface; a second later, he would have slid back into the water.
  Blagoy rose to his full height, leaning on his tail (he still had one) and looking around at the confused crowd.
  All these people... Frozen in various poses, afraid to breathe - people in colorful clothes, with painted bodies and some kind of insanely complex headdresses... Or is it just their hairstyles?..
  They all looked at him in horror and remained silent. In the complete silence, only the shells decorating the women's clothes occasionally clinked.
  The large stone censer was emitting the last wisps of spicy smoke.
  The sun was shining.
  He grabbed the cord with his left hand and began to lift it with great effort before the silent eyes of the people. He wound the rope steadily around his paw, glad it hadn't lost its strength. Although it should have—he was old... very old by human standards. He would think about that later.
  The girl appeared over the edge of the well—her head thrown back, her body hanging limply. But he knew she was alive. Grabbing her with his other paw, he carefully laid her down on the ground, noting in passing that his paw had become a hand—a normal human one.
  And his tail was gone too.
  Looking up again, the Good One discovered that his vision had also changed—it had become sharper, but had lost the ability to distinguish between heat and cold. He began to hiss, almost a growl, out of habit, but his throat began to push out the words:
  — Such sacrifices... will not be... anymore. I said it, the Good One... No — I, the Cromlech. I — the Cromlech!
  The world called Egrossimoion was leaving him... leaving him completely.
  Ahav Kan Hol, Lord Snake Skull, the high priest of the city of Yuukuabnal, watched with eyes wide with horror as a great god emerged from the Sacred Cenote, where they wanted to throw a slave girl as a sacrifice to the god Chak, in order to get rid of the drought that had befallen the world.
  He was enormous—twice the size of any man—and terrifying, like a crocodile standing on its hind legs. However, no one alive had ever seen such a crocodile.
  Its greenish skin was covered with a complex black pattern that seemed to the priest like ominous plumage.
  His huge, crested lizard head was also disfigured by a terrible dent.
  He opened his terrible mouth and made menacing, incomprehensible sounds.
  And then, beyond the boundless terror, the priest was overcome with great jubilation. For he had seen something few of the human race had ever seen. And this signified the gods' great favor to the city of Yukuabnal and to him, the priest Ahav Kan Khol.
  The air was thick with the spicy aroma of the fragrant resin smoked during the sacrifice. Musical instruments, dropped from the hands of the players, and good things offered to the gods were scattered everywhere—beautiful dishes, carved wooden thrones, pieces of colorful fabric, precious quetzal feathers, jewelry made of jade, rock crystal, bone, mother-of-pearl, amber, copper, and onyx. The people gathered for the celebration struggled to come to their senses, watching the monster that had emerged straight from Xibalba transform before their eyes into a man. An unusual one, but a man nonetheless.
  And then Ahab Kan Hol proclaimed:
  — Rejoice, people of Yukuabnal! Great joy has come! Kukulkan, the Feathered Serpent, has appeared! The Great One has appeared!
  Together with the entire crowd, the priest fell to his knees before the creature standing on the edge of the cenote.
   18
  
  Eugene Kromlekh. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 6, 1980 (12.18.7.2.13, and 7 Ben, and 16 Shul)
  He couldn't get the legs of this... Ilona out of his head. He could have been genuinely astonished at his own wickedness—as he walked away from his wife's body cooling on a foreign beach, he mentally conjured up a picture of the graceful, catlike girl with her hem lifted obscenely, her white, tense legs on the smooth black sand, her slender hands clutching a deadly toy...
  However, Evgeny understood that this was his psyche’s defense mechanism at work, clinging to a vivid image to prevent him from thinking about...
  Don't think about Nick! Don't think! Later.
  Then, when he gets to those who did this and does what's right with them, only then will he think about...
  Black blood on black sand. A slightly open mouth with a drop of blood. The face still reflects the intoxication of passion. A dead face.
  Don't think!
  Think instead of Ilona's legs. White legs on the black sand. Her desperate girlish face as she looked at the people she had just killed.
  It seems she's never killed before. But she's well-trained. Yevgeny learned intelligence mostly through practice, while today's officers are trained at the academy.
  But what's the point? She couldn't save Nika...
  Don't think!
  The girl, of course, wasn't to blame—she couldn't have foreseen that the Aztlans would suddenly go mad out of nowhere. There's no other way to explain what happened. Evgeny couldn't believe that here, in Eastern Aztlan, some fanatics, without official sanction, could suddenly attack an important Russian figure and kill his wife...
  Don't think!
  So, this is a planned and prepared provocation. But why, for God's sake, explain? So he wouldn't get Chilam? They'll award it posthumously, with even greater pomp. The League of Scribes is capable of ignoring even a direct order from the Hueytlatoani—let alone the secret schemes of the sages of Malinalco.
  And Malinalco itself—the power center of Great Aztlan—isn't a unified whole. At least two ancient branches of the warrior caste, the eagles and the jaguars, once competed there. Today, they serve as the two muscular arms of Aztlan—one for external enemies, the other for internal ones. And, as usual, one often doesn't know what the other is doing...
  This situation corresponded to the duality of Aztlan's supreme power. Alongside the emperor, the Hueytlatoani, there was also the Cihuacoatl—the prime minister and head of the priesthood. Formally, he was considered the emperor's right hand, but over the centuries, anything could happen... In any case, in recent years, these were two almost equal decision-making centers. The Cihuacoatl also oversaw the police, including the political one. This meant that the Jaguars, traditionally serving in the police, gravitated toward him. And the Eagles gravitated toward the emperor, who controlled the army and foreign intelligence. And, of course, each side was supported by various financial clans, the Pochteca—major entrepreneurs.
  This structure of power had existed for several hundred years and, surprisingly, had not usually been a factor in instability. However, for an outsider, these political intricacies were difficult to understand.
  "Do you know who they are?" Evgeny asked Ilona, who was walking alongside him.
  He didn't even notice that he had started calling her informally.
  She shook her head.
  "You were being followed by two groups," she said as she walked away. "One spotted me, and I had to leave. I don't think they were connected and had different missions."
  Evgeny remained silent.
  They walked through the streets, completely unnoticed among the excited crowd. The city was already filled with howls of mortal anguish and piercing squeals. The Aztlans were flattening the twitching dogs, slicing open their chests with knives, and tearing out their hearts—just as their ancestors had done to the people of the teocalli. The air, already thick with fumes, was now permeated with the stench of blood. In some places, the flayed dog carcasses had already been butchered, rubbed with a spice mixture, and placed to simmer in earthen ovens built right in the courtyards of houses.
  Ilona led him into the old town, rarely visited by tourists—a tangle of narrow streets, alleys, and dead ends, ending at the blank walls of isolated houses. This chaotic architecture blended elements of Central Atlantis, North Africa, and the Pyrenees.
  "Here," she said sharply, stopping at the wall of a small house. It was a typical local adobe building, but very run-down. And although a flower wreath hung over the gate in the dirty wall, signaling Ilona's safety, the gate itself was unlocked.
  “Something’s wrong,” the girl said, looking around and taking out a revolver.
  This time, Evgeny didn't just stare at the process—he, too, sensed the gathering danger and pulled out his pistol.
  They burst through the gate according to all the rules - in a low stance, covering each other, controlling the space sector by sector.
  The narrow courtyard was empty, only a few plants in tubs stood against the wall.
  “Manuel was supposed to wait today and not go anywhere,” Ilona muttered, not lowering her pistol.
  Yes, Manuel was waiting for them in the house. He was lying face down on the floor in a sparsely furnished room. The back of his head was a bloody mess.
  "He was tortured," Evgeny noted, examining the fresh cuts and burns on his arms and back. The skin had been torn away in places.
  Ilona remained silent—she was feeling very bad. She had only met this Pyrenean who had moved to Fortuna twice. But that day, there was so much death around her—too much for her.
  "What next?" asked Cromlech.
  "They can watch the house," Ilona began, but immediately interrupted herself. "No, otherwise they would be here already."
  "Not necessarily," Evgeny shrugged. "They know we're armed and that you killed those on the beach. They might just be afraid and waiting for reinforcements. But if we go into the city now, they'll definitely catch us there."
  "You're right," Ilona nodded, also unaware that she'd switched to familiarity with the famous writer. "We need to fortify ourselves here and wait for morning. They're unlikely to attack—they're too obvious."
  "Where to in the morning?" asked Evgeny.
  "To the consulate, of course," Ilona said. "Manuel has a shed; it should have at least strong doors."
  She pointed to the broken doors of the house. Cromlech only nodded.
  There were indeed doors in the barn, and quite sturdy ones at that. As was the iron block that locked them. Why the late Manuel had turned an outbuilding into something resembling a fortified fortress—God knows, but it was just what the fugitives needed now. They barred the door and both collapsed, exhausted, into a pile of straw.
  The barn was small and dark, with only a crooked moon peeking through the murky window, scattering faint reflections across the darkness. Judging by the faint scent, some animals had once lived here, perhaps birds or rabbits, but now the barn was empty, and had been for a long time.
  They both understood that the danger hadn't gone away, had even become more serious. But their minds were no longer able to mobilize their bodies, which, after the extreme strain, were screaming for peace. Ilona and Evgeny lay silent and motionless, gradually sinking into a semi-drowsy state.
  Kromlech continued desperately to push away the overwhelming, burning thoughts of Monica's death. To somehow protect himself from them, he began to ponder how he could have been caught. Anxiety had been surging over him periodically even before the trip, but he attributed it to the exhaustion of the past year. These attacks became even more intense on the Fortunas. When he realized they were being followed, he decided that this was the root of his anxiety. However, after realizing that they were being led by the same white woman, apparently a compatriot, he came to the correct conclusion—his own secret services were covering for him. Well-versed in intelligence methods, Kromlech understood that if only one woman, and not an entire group, was targeting him, his guardian angels wouldn't foresee any real danger. This calmed him somewhat, but anxiety washed over him more than once—right up until the Itakatl at the cultural center. Then he finally relaxed.
  The vodka was laced with a drug—possibly akin to the potion used to calm child sacrifices in medieval Tahuantinsuyu. They would laugh and rejoice until the priest's club fell on their heads. Although, it could have been anything—Aztlan's secret laboratories were renowned for their poisons for all contingencies of covert war.
  And then what happened happened...
  A dead woman's face with a drop of blood in the corner of her mouth... A dead boy's face - covered in crimson spots, with a protruding, swollen tongue...
  Don't think!
  It was easier now—his half-disconnected brain shifted to another subject much more easily. Kromlekh began thinking about Ilona again. Women had worked in intelligence since ancient times. In a sense, they were more suited than men for this type of combat. As a historian, writer, and soldier, Kromlekh knew this better than most. But the conservative nature of the son of an Orthodox Siberian Cossack rebelled against the image that once again appeared before him: feline grace, white feet on black sand, a pistol spewing death in slender hands...
  Evgeny glanced at the girl lying next to him. She was lost in a deep sleep, haunted by heavy dreams—muttering something through her teeth and occasionally letting out a soft cry. Her hair was even more disheveled, with considerably more straw in it. Evgeny looked at her dirty legs, her bare shoulder, exposed by the slipped tie of her sundress, her large nipples clearly visible through the fabric. Feelings he didn't like arose and intensified within him again. This time, it wasn't displacement—he was genuinely madly drawn to this girl, young enough to be his daughter.
  He, too, clenched his teeth and turned away. The moon seemed to be shining brighter, making the surroundings more visible. Cromlech was slightly surprised to find that the barn was larger than he'd thought—its far end was lost in shadow. It also turned out that the pile of straw they'd fallen into was on a raised plank.
  Evgeny turned back to Ilona, as if his eyes were drawn there by a magnet. She shifted in her sleep, and the hem of her sundress rose even higher. Her slightly parted legs seemed to invite... Moreover, it seemed to Evgeny that her closed-eyed face no longer reflected the torment of a nightmare, but the passion of an erotic dream.
  Evgeny involuntarily groaned quietly through his teeth from barely restrained desire, but found the strength to turn away.
  “Just take her already, my friend,” a mocking voice rang out.
  It was very clear and dry, as if it sounded in the frosty air.
  Kromlech spun around. The pistol seemed to appear in his hand, pointed at the dark figure standing with its back to the light from the window.
  "No, no," the stranger said with a light laugh. "You won't be able to shoot. Not here and not now."
  Evgeny saw the words fly out of the speaker's mouth like clouds of steam in the cold, forming letters. He himself didn't know whether he was hearing them or reading them in Atlantino.
  "Delgado," Cromlech said in surprise. "How did you get here?"
  And his phrase also hung in the air.
  
   In Praise of the Feathered Serpent. A lecture by Professor Jakub Jagielski at the Catholic University of Lublin. ‎. Lublin, Lithuania. September 18, 1979 (12.18.6.4.10, and 9 Ok, and 18 Mol)
  The first accounts of Kukulkan are vague and legendary. The few written sources report that he emerged from the Sacred Cenote during a ceremonial sacrifice, that initially he was not human in appearance, but later assumed the appearance of all humans, albeit with an unusual appearance. Naturally, many myths have accumulated over the centuries around a figure of such magnitude. Moreover, sources for that period of Mesoamerican history are extremely scarce. Mayan codices, written on amatl paper or leather, quickly decomposed in the humid jungle. But even greater damage was caused by the Toltec invasion, which destroyed numerous Mayan written monuments.
  Kukulkan's subsequent activities are well known, however, as he was revered by the Toltecs, and later by the Mexica and other peoples of Aztlan, who call him Quetzalcoatl in the Nahua language. At first, the inhabitants of Yucuabnal, led by their king, began to worship him as the incarnation of the ancient deity of the Feathered Serpent. However, he laid claim to political power, which, of course, could not have pleased the local rulers. But the number of Kukulkan's worshipers grew, the local priesthood sided with him, and eventually, civil war broke out in the city. Kukulkan defeated the old elite and became the city's ruler. From this point on, his reforms began.
  It's worth noting that over time, the city became known as Chichen Itza, but it's not certain that the prefix "Itza" refers to the Mayan tribe that lived there. It's quite likely that it's a combination of the words "Itz ha," meaning "water sorcerers."
  So, regarding reforms, history has preserved a document called "The Teachings of Kukulkan." It is addressed to his sons, primarily the eldest, who bore the Mexican name Topiltzin—apparently, he was the son of one of Kukulkan's Nahua-speaking wives. In fact, the "Teachings" is a kind of program for descendants, for many generations to come. In places, the text is strikingly reminiscent of political science treatises of a later period. It is divided into thematic sections devoted to agriculture, navigation and trade, technological development, public administration, military affairs, and culture. It is in this order, which interestingly illuminates Kukulkan's hierarchy of values.
  Be that as it may, the text makes it clear that this man was undoubtedly ahead of his time. By far. Moreover, he seems to have foreseen global processes that began much later. For example, he calls for developing relations, including trade, with the kingdoms of northern Peru. On the other hand, he warns his sons that sooner or later these kingdoms will unite into a vast empire that will become a dangerous rival.
  As we know from history, seven centuries later, the Inca empire of Tawantinsuyu did indeed emerge on the western coast of southern Atlantis, becoming the main enemy of the young Aztlan. One can't help but feel that Kukulkan even foresaw that it would no longer be the Mayan state that would confront this empire, but that his people would become an integral part of the Great Aztlan. But were they really his people?
  Speaking of relations with the Peruvian states, Kukulkan delved into matters seemingly unworthy of the attention of a great ruler, such as livestock farming. He writes about the Peruvians using llamas as a means of transport and suggests importing these animals into their country. He then goes on to write something truly revolutionary—about the possibility of using llamas to till the fields. As is well known, at that time, no people in either Atlantis used draft animals. There simply weren't suitable animals, as even llamas are too weak to plow. But Kukulkan's brilliant foresight paid off several hundred years later: when buffalo from Southeast Asia arrived in Atlantis, the idea of using animals to till the fields was already quite common there.
  Moreover, Kukulkan's suggestion that llamas could be used for warfare must have seemed like fantasy in his time. And in reality, it's impossible to create a llama cavalry, even though these animals are related to camels. However, when horses were later brought from China to Meso-Atlantis by the Toltecs, the idea took on a completely different tone...
  Kukulkan persistently reiterated the need for land and sea exploration. In fact, he himself put this into practice throughout his reign. For example, he encouraged the development of shipbuilding—under him, the Maya began to increase the sides of their large dugout ocean-going canoes and use sails and outriggers. It was on such vessels—before the Atlanteans adopted the Chinese jong—that Mayan seafarers began colonizing the islands of the Taino Sea in the east, and in the west, they discovered Hawaii, later continuing their voyages as far as Sampaguita, Malaya, Japan, and China.
  Kukulkan patronized the ppolom—merchant corporations—who continually developed their trade routes by land and sea. Trade with the Peruvian coast became regular by the end of Kukulkan's life. The ppolom penetrated as far north as Cahokia on the Mississippi, as far east as the Lucayan Islands, and as far south as the mouth of the Paranatingo.
   19
  
  Blagoy with Ezoeeveli. Egrossimoyon, about ten million Earth years ago
  He spent almost a day in the grottoes of knowledge. The perception of the passage of time was the little that remained of his previous existence. No wonder—here on Egrossimoion (he remembered the short word "Mars" less and less often), the days were only slightly longer than on Ezoeeveli. That is... yes, to Earth.
  Of course, beneath the planet's surface, in the absence of a sun, the very concept of a day was a pure convention. But a convention carefully preserved by a civilization that had gone underground 55 million years ago. Now, incidentally, he was trying to comprehend the complex cultural system, which, to the eyes of a former human, represented a delightful hodgepodge of completely incomprehensible traditions, an alien yet captivating creative code, and stunning intellectual insights. Subtle spiritual systems, emotionally charged scientific concepts, and meticulously developed ceremonies intertwined in a single worldview, paradoxically complementing one another. And over all this lay a veil of melancholy sadness and a keen sense of the tragedy of existence.
  Perhaps this is how a civilization should view itself, struck down by a blind cosmic force at takeoff, yet not completely destroyed, surviving in the limited space of underground caves, some filled with water, some dry. And surviving thus for long eons.
  For in a time beyond the reach of short-lived humans—65 million years ago, according to the Ezoevely reckoning—Egrossimoyon, later called Mars by earthlings, was struck by a comet that smashed in from the outskirts of the solar system. At that time, a beautiful but cruel civilization flourished on Mars—a vast kingdom, spanning half the planet. Shortly before the catastrophe, it became the only one in the northern hemisphere (the southern hemisphere had long been an uninhabitable chaos of mountain ranges and gigantic meteorite craters). The empire was ruled by a divine king, by mandate of the one great Sun—Adelinaam. The name of this supreme deity roughly means "the central, all-creating eye of fire," hence the empire's name, the Fiery Empire. The comet's impact—though it did break into two parts within the planet's force field—removed much of the atmosphere, and the kingdom perished. Very quickly, all life on the surface perished from suffocation. The ocean spilled into space, and what remained of the water system—lakes, rivers, streams—all froze. Then the harsh, invisible radiation from Adelinaam, no longer reflected by the atmosphere, finally burned away the last of life on the surface.
  However, not all the Egrosimoa perished—because they were not human, that is, primates. The interior of Mars has long been cut by a vast network of caves, mostly filled with water and in some places opening to the surface. Earthlings, incidentally, are aware of these caves—sometimes they see traces of them through telescopes, leading to talk of Martian canals. True, they are not always visible, so most Earth scientists consider these lines an optical illusion. But this is not so. It was there, in the network of underground caves that the Egrosi call the Hidden Grotto, that all life on this planet originated, and it was there that intelligent beings emerged—from the local omnivorous lungfish reptiles.
  Some of them survived there when a cosmic monster tore the scalp of their homeworld. They spent thousands upon thousands of years in the Grotto, their civilization flickering, developing slowly, but still thriving. They dug new tunnels, devised devices to make life easier in the depths, and attempted to comprehend their place in the world and the cause of their misfortunes through works of art and scientific research. Occasionally, they made forays to the surface and looked with bitterness upon the once-home, now utterly alien, long-dead world.
  But the catastrophe didn't end with Egrossimoion. The second part of the comet's rocky core was heading toward Ezoeeveli. At that time, there was no intelligent life on Earth. The asteroid impact and its aftermath wiped out many life forms on the surface—primarily the various reptiles, the most successful on that world. They were distant relatives of the builders of the Martian civilization, but they chose to increase their body mass, predatory behavior, and other low-level adaptations rather than their intelligence.
  They disappeared, and the vast expanses of Earth were populated by the ancestors of humans. All that remained of the cosmic killer's visit was a huge crater—partly in the sea, partly on land, which would much later be called the Yucatan Peninsula.
  And there's still something left.
  The being, once the scientist Eugene Kromlekh, now called Blagoy (the actual word is too complex to reproduce in human writing), used a long, curved claw to attempt to move a crystal—one of a cluster growing in a vessel of purest water—in the right direction. They were alive and contained the information he needed, but he was still not very skilled at manipulating them. Kromlekh had spent the equivalent of an Earth year in the Martian vaults, millions of years before his birth. However, although his body had become similar to the inhabitants there, he remained almost human inside and still perceived much of his surroundings as unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
  Finally, the crystal awoke and began pouring a narrative directly into Cromlech's mind. It was about Neon-goo—it was astonishing how similar the word was to the one that had once flashed in Evgeny's mind. It had been incredibly long ago and far away, in a place called Siberia. Strictly speaking, it hadn't even existed yet... But roughly translated, the word meant "membrane"...
  Blagoy settled himself more comfortably on the water sofa, created from dense, multicolored streams, and listened. What he appreciated about the local skills was their ability to transmit information telepathically. The Egrosi could also speak—their throats emitted trumpet-like sounds, growls, and hisses that could easily be formed into speech, but they only did so in the dry grottoes, and even there they preferred to communicate telepathically. Of course, Blagoy, as a linguist, tried to apply his skills here, breaking down the local speech, which he already understood very well, into sounds and blocks, and comparing words, but all these techniques, designed for human languages, were practically ineffective when applied to Egrosi speech.
  The local writing came easily to him—it resembled the Mayan hieroglyphics he'd once deciphered. The only problem was that the Egrosi rarely used writing, preferring crystals of knowledge. Signs were inscribed only on their graves. Previously, writing had been more common—Blagom had been told that on the surface, in the ruins of ancient cities, entire walls and steles covered in hieroglyphs were found. However, he had never been to the surface before.
  As for telepathy, it wasn't a language, but rather a visual perception and transmission, a kind of symbolic performance. The former Cromlech initially perceived only the simplest concepts this way, but now he can do almost anything. But he himself often found it difficult to convey anything particularly complex.
  But these, he believed, were temporary difficulties. The process of perception itself delighted him, reminiscent of contemplating intricate color patterns that carried deep and concrete meaning.
  So, Neon-goo – the Membrane – emerged immediately after the catastrophe that affected two planets. Although at that time, the Egrosi had no idea about this. Their civilization had reached roughly the level of dynastic Egypt or the Aztec Empire. Perhaps they were more technologically advanced, but they certainly knew more about astronomy. Due to the lack of a large satellite and the pronounced ellipticality of Egrossimoion's orbit, a heliocentric system emerged here very early, leading to a pronounced solar cult. The ancient Egrosi not only revered Adelinaam; for them, she was the source of all things visible and invisible.
  “Akhenaton should have been born here,” the thought overtook Blagoy as he retreated into the space-time swirls of the Cromlech.
  Polytheism as such never existed in the local civilizations—other gods existed in an inseparable connection with the Primary and Only One. And one of these subordinate, yet very important, deities was the daughter of Fire, the Bright Virgin—Ezoehebel. Earth...
  The Egrosi always saw this large, bluish star above them, orbited by another, smaller one. When they developed the rudiments of astronomy, they compared the elliptical orbit of their world around the Central Fire with the circular orbit of Earth. Therefore, the circle was an ideal for the Egrosi, achievable in their world only in theory. On Ezoeeveli, they understood, the seasons change evenly—unlike on Egrossimoion. And everything there is subordinated to this harmony, meaning the beings living there are blessed.
  At that time on Earth, dinosaurs were tearing each other to shreds – it was the Cretaceous period.
  They died out after a cosmic impact. And on the other affected planet, darkness and chaos reigned for centuries. The Egrosi were accustomed to living in underground waters; even before the disaster, they spent more time in the seas and rivers than in the open air. But the transition of their entire civilization underground was difficult.
  Even then, many Egrosi were pondering the causes of the disaster that had befallen them. Then they began to notice strange aliens entering the grottoes. Immediately after the catastrophe, they discovered creatures completely unlike those that had lived there before. Most of them died, but some survived and became part of their world. However, they were mindless and did not change. Even stranger were others, a very few in number—having appeared here, they took on the appearance of Egrosi, but were not.
  They became known as the Passersby, and it soon became clear that they came from Ezoeevele. Their stories greatly shook the locals' notions of the Bright Maiden's harmony. However, even before the catastrophe—after the terrible wars that accompanied the Fire Empire's conquest of the planet—Ezoeevele had transformed in the Egrosi's mind from a tender sister into a mother grieving over her lost sons. And to this day, she existed in both these guises.
  As for the Passersby, it soon became clear that their existence in the world of Yasnodevaya was not synchronous with their appearance in the world of Egrossimoion. By that time, the Martian civilization was able to observe the cosmos, having deployed several telescopes onto the planet's dead surface. It was perfectly clear that there were no intelligent beings on Ezoevely at the moment. But here they were—coming from other times and living nearby. This gave rise to several original religious concepts.
  Neon-goo became a crucial metaphysical phenomenon for the Egrosi. To this day, their science doesn't even have a hypothesis about its nature, taking the Membrane for granted. It soon became clear that it worked both ways. Some Passersby disappeared and then reappeared, and their stories were astonishing. It seemed they returned to Yasnodevaya in different eras—not the ones they had left.
  It seemed the space-time energy tunnel that connected the two planets after the catastrophe began on Earth, at the site of the comet's impact. When intelligent beings—only intelligent ones—arrived on the alien planet, they miraculously assumed the appearance of its inhabitants. But the temporal point of their arrival fluctuated with an incomprehensible rhythm. However, the Egrosi had too little information for such an analysis, and Earthlings were largely unaware of the Membrane.
  Apparently, only special creatures, originally designed for this purpose, could pass through it. The Egrosi treated the Passersby with polite respect, but generally treated them with indifference. As with everything else.
  The abundance of information he was absorbing began to tire the Good One. He relaxed all his muscles, stretched out more comfortably on the sofa, and began to draw water steadily and forcefully into his gills, trying to balance his mind. Gradually, strange visions arose within him, visions he, as a human, had no concept of. These visions were accompanied by vague thoughts, intertwined with them, and stretched into the unknown depths of his being.
  "Who created Neon-goo? Was it the blind forces of nature? And if not, then why? What's the point of all this?..."
  “Communicating vessels,” he perceived someone else’s thought, shuddered and raised his head.
  An unfamiliar Egrosi appeared nearby. But that wasn't surprising—the grottoes of knowledge are always full of visitors. The stranger's words appeared before the Good One's eyes, as if floating in the water, written in the local symbols. This reminded the former human Cromlech of something...
  Blagoy had only recently begun to distinguish the Egrosi by sight—at first, they had all seemed the same to him. But now he realized the stranger was somewhat smaller than himself and older, though still young. His own youth, incidentally, never ceased to amaze Evgeny. Although this was easily explained: by physically becoming an Egrosi, he had also acquired their biological time. And they lived much longer than humans—up to three hundred years by Earth's reckoning. In other words, with his almost sixty years on Earth, as an Egrosi, he was physiologically a youth. This sometimes led to awkward situations if the other person didn't know who they were dealing with.
  The stranger, like Blagoy, had almost no black, scaly patterns covering his greenish skin, which appear in the second half of life and become increasingly intricate and dense with age. But his body, though shorter than Blagoy, appeared stockier than Cromlech's youthfully slender, elongated figure. His crest was higher, his features sharper, and his head more massive than Evgeny's—even the dent that remained there did not disfigure it.
  "Forgive me for interrupting your visions, Blagoy-dio," the stranger conveyed with exquisite politeness, his words immediately flowing between them. "My name is Heenaroo, may you rejoice at our meeting. I've long dreamed of seeing your thoughts."
  Blagoy yawned widely, letting water flow freely through his gills – a natural reaction of the egrosi to the unexpected.
  "You... didn't... embarrass me..." he replied, speaking rather uncertainly. "I... am glad to see you... here."
  And his thoughts also appeared visibly. Heenaroo paid no attention. He spun around, turning the water sofa's activation button with the tip of his tail, and stretched out on it with visible pleasure.
  "What are you paying attention to?" he asked, kindly pressing the comb to his skull.
  - History... Culture... Egrosi civilization.
  "You should," Heenaroo agreed. "You want to know this world. And yourself in it."
  “It’s difficult,” complained Cromlech.
  It's strange: even in human form he didn't like to confide in strangers, but this egrosi somehow awakened trust in him.
  “It will get easier,” Heenaroo assured.
  He looked at Cromlech, lowering his third eyelid – a sign of thought.
  - Do you want to be here? Or are you dreaming of your own world?
  "I don't know," Evgeny replied, surprised by his own frankness. "In that world... on Earth, I had a goal... a path I took to achieve it. But I ended up in a completely different direction than I'd intended."
  "Do you like being here?" the stranger continued his frank interrogation, which was terribly tactless for an Egrosi, and even too blunt for a human's taste.
  However, Kromlech still felt no discomfort or irritation. He moved his clawed hand in front of his face, indicating uncertainty.
  "It's calm here... Comfortable. I like it," he finally said.
  In fact, these thought-forms represented different metaphors for the pleasant sensation of tasty, soft, oxygen-rich water.
  “Not as in my thoughts,” Heenaroo noted, sticking out the tip of a subtle communication language – irony.
  - Yes, I know about the Day of Wrath, about the Periods of Suffering...
  "That was a long time ago. Your planet suffered only slightly less back then. You don't remember, although your ancestors were already there. But I'm talking about those days and here. They weren't bright, no."
  - There can be no bright days on Egrossimoion these days... - it was Cromlech's turn to stick out his tongue at his interlocutor.
  He noisily released water from his gills and laughed. But the conversation continued in the same direction:
  - You know what.
  "Yes," Evgeny also grew serious. "A catastrophic decline in the birth rate from generation to generation, the death of young people, mass suicides without cause, senseless civil strife and wars, scientific and technological stagnation, the decline of the arts... Your civilization is dying."
  “We know that,” Heenaroo blinked his third eyelid a couple of times in agreement.
  It seemed like a banal statement.
  “It’s not terrible for us,” he added.
  "But why?" asked Evgeny.
  He really didn't understand.
  “Isn’t it a pity,” Kromlekh briefly waved his tail to indicate the boundaries of the grotto, “all of this?...”
  "We've lost everything we kept. There's little left. We don't mind," Heenaroo confirmed.
  "Then explain," Evgeny looked intently at his interlocutor. "The others I asked about this here gracefully evaded the question—as is your custom when you don't want to answer."
  "Ask if you need to," Heenaroo said evenly. "I'm not everything here."
  - You revere the Earth... the Virgin. Once, for you, she was a abode of harmony.
  “Yes,” Egrosi responded.
  - And many times – I don’t know how many, but many – people like me came to you...
  - Passers-by, so, - Heenaroo blinked again.
  "And they came from the future of my planet—from different eras," Cromlech continued stubbornly. "That means you know a lot, a great deal, about the future of Earth."
  - So.
  - But why didn't you ever try to influence what was happening on my planet? Why didn't you try to warn us about anything? To guide us... To correct us... Why?
  “And for whose benefit?” Heenaroo asked indifferently.
  Kromlech found no answer. He often encountered similar stumbling blocks here—when his way of thinking and his system of values blatantly clashed with the Martian mentality.
  “Young man...” Egrosi began, but Kromlekh interrupted him.
  - I'm not a young man.
  Heenaroo blinked, although this time it seemed ironic – Evgeny had not yet learned to catch the subtleties of the facial expressions of the local inhabitants.
  - Blagoy-dio, eiromonje, - Heenaroo corrected himself, using a super-polite form of address to his venerable interlocutor.
  "He's definitely being ironic," flashed through Kromlech's mind. "Why?"
  "Eiromondje, the difference in our approaches stems from the different structures of our worlds. In astronomical terms. Egrossimoion's orbit is five times more elongated than your Ezoeveli's. This makes the seasons uneven in length. Whereas yours are generally equal. That's why your ancestors thought everything in space revolved in a perfect circle. Mine always knew that wasn't the case. Hence your universal symbol of existence—the circle, into which the cross naturally later fitted. That is, your essence expands not only sideways, but also upward and downward. Furthermore, there are two luminaries in your sky..."
  - One thing, actually...
  - Two.
  - Ah... Luna.
  - So. For us, she was always Ezoeveli's servant, Liim. For you...
  "...The Night King of the Heavens. Or Queen. Or the Sun's younger brother," Cromlech said thoughtfully.
  - So. The world is divided.
  "Dualism, God and his adversary," Evgeny continued. "You have it different."
  Heenaroo blinked.
  "The cross will not become sacred for us," he said. "Our essence expands too—like all life—but only laterally, horizontally, across a plane. Our world is almost two-dimensional. We know about the third dimension, of course, but we conceive of it abstractly. That's why, before the Day of Wrath, we created a single kingdom for the planet. But we never considered going into space. And not a single variation of our religion has an adversary of the One Almighty Heavenly Fire. But for you..."
  - But you have Agriyu the Heavenly – the pet of the ruler Adelinaam...
  "So. Our perception of one of Egrossimoion's satellites. It turns out we can have neither an adversary or antagonist to God, nor a cross as a symbol of infinity. We live here and now; other worlds hold no allure. We revered Ezoevel as the blue Sister of Harmony—unattainable to us—and later, when troubles struck, as the Sorrowful Mother. And some even confused her with the Mother of Silence—Tayishaish. But we never yearned for that, and it never occurred to us that we would find ourselves there—after death, for example—to savor a harmony that doesn't exist here. Have I answered?"
  “Yes,” Cromlech admitted.
  “However, eiromonje,” Heenaroo continued, “not everything has been explained.”
  Cromlech narrowed his eyes questioningly, looking straight into the face of his interlocutor.
  "They did have an impact, after all. Those who got in..." he said quietly, then froze and fell silent.
   20
  
  In Praise of the Feathered Serpent. A lecture by Professor Jakub Jagielski at the Catholic University of Lublin. ‎. Lublin, Lithuania. September 18, 1979 (12.18.6.4.10, and 9 Ok, and 18 Mol)
  Kukulkan's remarkable foresight was evident in everything he did. For example, he repeatedly ordered his sons to develop metallurgy. This wasn't just about gold and copper, which the Maya used sporadically, or even bronze, which was already being produced in Peru. He also mentioned iron, which was virtually unknown in Atlantis at the time. According to legend, the Feathered Serpent himself wielded an iron axe—a sacred weapon that struck terror into enemies.
  Another legend says that he either invented or perfected the bow, which the Maya began to widely use around that time. In general, Kukulkan's contribution to the development of military science is difficult to overestimate. Suffice it to say that he formulated the idea of a closed infantry formation with long spears, covered by archers—the prototype of the formidable Aztlan tercio, which later gained fame in Atlantis and Afro-Eurasia.
  His thoughts on diplomacy, mobilization, and the role of intelligence are remarkably reminiscent of those of Sun Tzu, whose work Kukulkan could not have been familiar with. He wrote about universal military service, the training of elite units, schools for training command personnel—in short, about what would later make Aztlán's army the best in the world.
  In the final section of his treatise, he touches on the crucial role of writing, which leads to a call for his sons to patronize the scribal caste, encouraging the creation of not only economic and chronicle texts, but also literary ones. Furthermore, he categorically opposes human sacrifice, justifying this—quite sensibly—by claiming that it weakens the state by alienating conquered peoples. At the time, he was, of course, forced to consider the priestly elite, which wielded enormous influence in Mayan society. Therefore, he does not completely reject the very idea that the gods require sacrifices. However, one can discern the cautiously instilled idea that sacrifices can be symbolic, and certainly not necessarily human. To support this, he introduced the ritual bloodletting of the ruler as a form of sacrifice, a practice he himself underwent on numerous occasions. Moreover, some passages of the "Teaching" were incorporated much later into the concept of monotheism proclaimed by Kukulkan's distant descendant Nezahualcoyotl.
  Regarding state building, Kukulkan not only laid out in his treatise the fundamental principles that have underpinned all Atlantic states to this day. He himself was actively engaged in the creation of an empire, tirelessly annexing city after city. He unified almost the entire territory of the Mayan civilization, and his sons expanded it to other peoples of Meso-Atlantis. Mayapan stretched from the Taino Sea to the Pacific Ocean.
  However, these reforms provoked a strong reaction from the priests, who opposed the king. They hatched numerous conspiracies against Kukulkan. The last one, apparently, was successful—this occurred around 601. The Feathered Serpent was killed, but the rebellion was suppressed by his sons, and Topiltzin ascended the throne. He continued his father's work, particularly by sending maritime expeditions to the west. Already at the end of his life, in 642, Mayan ships landed on one of the Sampaguita islands. This event is considered the beginning of contact between Atlantis and Eurasia and the so-called Topiltzin Exchange—the movement of people, cultural and material treasures, animals, plants, and microorganisms back and forth across the Great Ocean. This marked tectonic civilizational shifts for the peoples of both continents—especially for Atlantis.
  As for Kukulkan, there are two other versions of his end. According to one, he abdicated, leaving the empire to his son, and went to Mexico, to Teotihuacan, which by then was in deep decline but still retained the aura of a sacred city, "where the gods are born," and there he ended his days. The Nahua peoples claimed this was indeed the case, and furthermore, they were certain that he left children in Teotihuacan, thus founding the dynasty that still rules the Great Aztlan. This, of course, is unlikely—even if Kukulkan went to Mexico, he was too advanced in years to produce offspring.
  According to another legend, he sailed alone east, to the "center of the sea," but promised to return and administer righteous judgment to his people. This legend became part of the apocalyptic narrative of the Religion of the One. One of the motivations for Ixtlilxochitl's voyage east was to search for Quetzalcoatl. But one must assume that even if this truly happened, such a solitary voyage constituted a kind of suicide—the Feathered Serpent sailed into nowhere, to perish alone in the ocean. A sad fate for a great ruler and cultural hero!
  There's something profoundly unsaid about this story, especially considering how much it has influenced the fate of our world. At the end of every service in the temples of the One Tlokenauak, the faithful, after the final exclamation, "And may the Feathered Serpent return," fall silent and bow toward the east. They continue to await him, just as we Christians await the Second Coming of the Lord. It's as if we all sense that our world is not yet fully complete, that we continue to exist within some grand process...
  Thank you for your attention. Questions please.
  
   Ilona Linkova. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 6, 1980 (12.18.7.2.13, and 7 Ben, and 16 Shul)
  Ilona was dead tired, but she couldn't sleep. It wasn't even a matter of being constantly on guard until the crisis passed. It was simply impossible to sleep now... After what had happened... After everything she had seen and experienced... After killing a person... people... For the first time.
  She envied Kromlech, who seemed to have fallen asleep the moment he sank down onto the straw. Old school... He was used to all this. Although... He had just lost his wife. His beloved, as far as she knew. She had died in his arms, stabbed. And yet he slept. True, his sleep seemed heavy—his face had grown stern, and soft groans occasionally issued from his clenched teeth. Ilona wouldn't want to spy on his visions now.
  Especially since she had plenty of reasons to worry: she'd failed the mission, the people she was responsible for had died... After she returned to Russia—if she ever returned—she'd certainly be demoted and dismissed. It would be a good thing she wasn't court-martialed.
  But all this will come later—in an almost impossible future, where she still has to break through, preferably alive and not too badly damaged. And take out the Cromlech. Then again, it seems he's capable of taking anyone anywhere. Including himself...
  Ilona glanced at the man lying next to her. In his sleep, Evgeny's features had smoothed out, and he looked younger and somehow... more vulnerable. She remembered how he had somehow become the dominant figure in their tandem. But now he evoked in her not irritation at the fact that she was unwillingly obeying his orders, but almost pity. And interest.
  The girl looked at the vein beating on his neck, at the drop of sweat rolling down his huge forehead... She just wanted to look at him.
  She realized with surprise that she was madly drawn to this man. The growing desire was becoming downright indecent. Her heart was pounding, her head was foggy, and a moist, voluptuous heat was swelling within her.
  “It’s some kind of obsession,” she found the strength to turn away.
  "He's sleeping. What a pity!" a dry, mocking voice rang out very close.
  Before Ilona even realized what had happened, her hand twitched toward the revolver lying nearby. Or rather, she thought she twitched. In reality, as Ilona realized with horror, it didn't move an inch. A numbness overcame the girl, similar to that which sometimes occurs in the first seconds after sleep, when the mind is already awake but the body is still sprawled in paralysis.
  The situation was quite terrifying. And it became even more terrifying when a figure speaking appeared in Ilona's still motionless field of vision. She recognized him—it was Antonio Delgado, a local volunteer from the Russian consulate. For a moment, she felt joy that their own people had found them, but then she realized that all was not well. In fact, it was very bad.
  Delgado smiled widely with his golden-toothed mouth.
  "No, no, I'm not one of those idiots who attacked him," he pointed at the still-sleeping Cromlech. "They completely ruined all our plans for him."
  "What are your plans? And who are you?" Ilona wanted to say, but she still couldn't utter a word.
  Antonio understood her, however, and laughed quietly. His laughter was unpleasant.
  "You know," he said, leaning toward Ilona, "I can't stand cheap detective stories where the villain holds the hero at gunpoint and tells him all his secrets. And then the hero breaks free and runs away, enlightened. And the readers, of course, get what they need... Ilonsita, I'm not such a stupid villain," he whispered right into the girl's face, filling her with a peculiar breath odor—Ilona couldn't tell whether it was disgusting or simply unusual.
  She noticed that lustful look in his eyes again, and she felt afraid. He loomed over her, completely helpless. Noticing her fear, Delgado laughed again.
  "Alas, mia gatita blanca, nothing will work out for us here and now. The fact is, we are physically located in different parts of this amazing world. It's a shame..."
  Ilona didn't understand, but she sighed with relief when he straightened up and moved away from her.
  “But with him, everything would have worked out quite well for you,” he pointed again at the sleeping Evgeny.
  For some reason, Delgado's face distorted for a moment, and he rubbed the back of his neck with some kind of nervous movement.
  "But you didn't dare," he concluded mockingly again. "And he didn't dare either. How... uptight you are! But then again, I didn't expect anything else."
  Here he suddenly spoke without mockery, in a businesslike and dry tone:
  "I'll tell you something anyway, because I want you to know. You could have been killed ten times over today, at least. But, unfortunately, it had to be done—it was a path without a heart, and warriors don't walk such paths. Yes," he nodded at Ilona's unspoken question, as if he could hear it, "you're dealing with warriors, and things are bad for you. We needed this man, and we knew why. You weren't. But it turns out you're connected to him somehow. We accept it, but we don't understand it. So you'll have to stay alive and with him for a while. Until you both die, or something else happens."
  Ilona's fear gradually turned to anger, which sharpened her perception and forced her to seek a way to victory. She still couldn't move, but she desperately tried to do so. It seemed the alien noticed her efforts:
  "You don't have to try—you're not a dreamer," he said dismissively. "Here he is—yes, he can. And you're just an addition to him; you're incapable of seeing and acting."
  The realization that Delgado was likely right—and not just about the current situation—sparked a burst of rage within the girl. And that rage, in turn, created an incredible tension, at the peak of which Ilona realized her right hand was shaking slightly.
  Delgado fell silent and looked at her in amazement. But Ilona continued to push, and gradually her arm began to rise. It was strange, because she didn't feel any muscular effort, only mental. Her arm rose as if by itself, as if in a dream.
  “This is a dream,” Ilona realized and looked at her hand.
  She saw her very clearly.
  The girl wiggled her fingers and watched them move—slightly slow and unsteady. The thought of the action and the action itself were still completely disconnected, but that no longer mattered.
  Ilona stood up.
  And again, it wasn't a physical movement, but a kind of embodied thought—she simply found herself on her feet, without any preliminary muscular effort. It was also strange that Delgado stood motionless, not interfering with her in any way, merely observing.
  The barn was completely different from how Ilona remembered it. It was much larger, covered with straw, and she stood on some kind of raised platform. And it wasn't dark here anymore. It wasn't light, either—it was just that everything was clearly visible thanks to the moonlight streaming through the window and the cracks in the wooden wall.
  At the far end, Ilona saw doors—a second entrance that she had somehow missed when she and Kromlech had arrived.
  "I should probably board up the door there too," the thought wasn't entirely logical, but Ilona ignored it. She simply took a step toward the door. And another. And another. Her legs felt rubbery and incredibly long, bending at impossible angles and striding unusually wide.
  In any case, she arrived at the door surprisingly quickly and immediately grabbed the bolt. But instead of trying to secure it, she unexpectedly opened the door.
  "No!" Ilona heard Delgado scream, but she ignored him. The sight that unfolded before her paralyzed her.
  There wasn't, as she expected, a narrow, dark street. It was light and... everything was moving. Or rather, it was moving outside the window. Outside the window of the strange room with people sitting opposite each other, the landscape was moving at incredible speed. A winter landscape, and it was painfully familiar to Ilona.
  She immediately realized it was a train compartment traveling through wintery Russia—somewhere in its steppe region. Or rather, it was speeding—Ilona had never traveled at such a speed in her life.
  And it was all terrifyingly real, far more real than the ghostly barn behind her.
  One of the women in the compartment turned her head, and Ilona saw her face very close. An elderly woman, yet rejuvenated, her clothes and hair were a little odd, but that wasn't a reason to scream inwardly in horror. And for some reason, that's exactly what happened to Ilona.
  "Who are you?!" she screamed silently, and then realized the woman could see and hear her, too. Horror and astonishment were reflected on her face, and she spoke like an echo:
  - Who are you?
  It seemed to Ilona that she was steadily flowing into the carriage rushing through the snow and nothing could be done about it.
  "Close it, you idiot!" Delgado screamed, genuine panic in his voice. "They're going to drag us in there!"
  Ilona thought he was screaming somewhere far away. And she didn't care that he was screaming. She desperately wanted to get closer to the old woman, who was looking at her with wild eyes.
  But then the girl heard something else—this time very loud and sharp. And then the carriage with the woman disappeared.
  Ilona lay on the straw. Next to her, in clouds of suffocating smoke, sat Kromlech, firing at figures blurred against the moonlight.
  
   Kukulkan. Yucatan. Neighborhoods of Yashkul. 9.6.8.4.4, and 9 Kan, and 2 Sip (1 May 562)
  “Ah-ah-grr,” Kukulkan exhaled sharply, chopping his axe at his opponent’s shoulder.
  A fountain of blood sprayed straight into his face as the sharp iron sliced through thick cotton armor, muscle, and collarbone, lodging in his ribcage. The Kukul warrior's face, so recently filled with rage, fell, turning gray, and he sank heavily to the ground. Kukulkan was overcome by the stench of blood and stale sweat from the dead man's quilted armor.
  With great effort, Kromlech tore the axe blade from the wound, somehow remembering how he'd spent a long time explaining how to make it to the blacksmith. He himself had little understanding of the process of forging meteorite iron—after all, he was a paleolinguist, not a historian of metallurgy. In fact, his lack of specialized knowledge was a daily nightmare here. But he did know something, and most importantly, he was understood by the Purépecha blacksmith, a master of God, kidnapped from the distant western mountains. Or rather, by the gods. He somehow figured out that the iron meteorite shouldn't be heated, hammered it with stones of varying sizes, and finally produced something resembling a Siberian palm or a pointed glaive, which would appear in Europe much later.
  However, the prototype of this weapon was here—the Aztecs would later call it the tepostapil, and the Mayans called it the "splitting spear." It was a simple wooden macuahuitl sword crossed with a te spear. The edges of this long, flat club were studded with extremely sharp obsidian shards. A wonderfully deadly weapon, but it only lasted for a couple of strikes before the obsidian would break, the shards would fall out of their sockets, and they would have to be replaced.
  However, this didn't make it any less effective. Kukulkan was further convinced of this as he surveyed the battlefield. Obsidian, flint, and wood were doing terrible things here, no less effective than steel.
  “The blood became a lake, the skulls became a mountain,” Kukulkan quietly muttered a line that had not yet been written.
  The massacre took place in a drizzling rain—the wet season was approaching. The royal guards of the Itza people, fierce and terrifying in their red and black war paint, furiously exterminated the Kukul people. Behind the vanguard, the holkans, led by the king himself—him, the halach-vinik Kukulkan—came the main body of the army from the city of Yukubunal, which in recent times was increasingly called Chichen Itza.
  The "Crocodile Formation." It was the Cromlech's pride and joy, spending a long time explaining to his warriors what he wanted from them, demonstrating how it was done, until they understood and, most importantly, were convinced in practice that it worked. He created the "Crocodile" based on the already existing closed spear formation, as well as his own ideas about the Macedonian phalanx and the Spanish tercio. Several squares, armed with long pikes and protected by large shields. The spears had to be lengthened to at least three meters, and the shields heavier. He had to explain to the warriors that they must not scatter in battle, that if the leader was killed, it did not mean defeat—the curse of all pre-Columbian American armies, which later allowed the conquistadors to crush them so easily... They were not accustomed to fighting the way he taught, but now they fight, and Chichen Itza has the best army in these parts. In fact, as Cromlech understood, the best was on both American continents. Perhaps even in Western Europe, which, after the fall of Rome, was now being swept by hordes of barbarians.
  "We just need more horses and iron..."
  The Crocodile was protected on all sides by detachments of light warriors: slingers, javelin throwers, and archers. Bows weren't supposed to appear here for another half-millennium. And they wouldn't have appeared if the student Kromlekh hadn't once met an old Buryat master, who gave him a few lessons in making a composite bow during one of his expeditions. Evgeny became fascinated with this craft, and by St. Petersburg, he eventually began producing quite decent bows. He later abandoned the project, but now it came in handy. True, he spent quite a while searching for suitable materials and tools, but for the Feathered Serpent, the locals would have found anything. Of course, these weren't true Mongol bows, but they were quite functional. Although even here he had to convince his warriors of their usefulness and teach them how to shoot. "And now they shoot as well as Genghis Khan's nukers," Kromlekh thought proudly.
  His thoughts were cut short—he was suddenly attacked by two enemies. The king saw several of his warriors rushing to his aid, but he knew they wouldn't make it in time, and he would have to deal with the enemy. He knew he could handle them.
  ...Where did he, a university professor in his own world, get this merciless ferocity?..
  He pierced his first opponent with the sharp end of his glaive—the man simply didn't expect the strange tip to be so powerful. The boy ran joyfully, hoping to capture the enemy king and cover himself in eternal glory, while his family prospered. And so he died—with a fierce glee on his face.
  Kukulkan, having wrenched the glaive free, blocked the second macuahuitl's blow. The stone blades shattered and flew out as the wooden sword struck the iron tip. Kukulkan raised his shield, attempting to parry the counterattack. The iron tip sank into the shield, and with a sharp movement, the king wrenched it from his opponent's hand. The second blow split his head.
  The guardsmen jumped up, but there was nothing else for them to do. Kukulkan pointed to the fortifications of Yashkukul visible in the distance. They had come here to take the enemy capital and annex this kingdom to their empire. The work was not yet finished. Covered in the blood of his enemies, haloed in the fluttering precious feathers of the royal quetzal bird, Kukulkan was majestic and terrifying. Unusually tall and fair-skinned for the inhabitants of these parts, he had an incredibly large beard for an Indian, piercing, bewitching, sky-blue eyes, and a terrible dent in his forehead. His skull had not been artificially deformed in infancy, like most Mayans, and he did not encrust his teeth with jade, like all noblemen. This made him even more distinctive, making him frighteningly strange. The Holkans roared wildly and rushed back into battle.
  ...If it weren't for Egrossimoion, where he spent many years in an inhuman form, where he fought in watery caves, where he felt the powerful bond between civilizations built under the Sun on water and blood... If it hadn't been the Blagoy, but also Eugene Kromlekh, who had come here, he probably would never have become Kukulkan. But now he was.
  Mars gave him insight into the development of intelligent society. He now knew that on Earth, everything could have turned out completely differently. If... If not for the cross erected over five hundred years ago across the ocean, in an insignificant province of a great empire, on which a certain troublemaker was executed. Miraculously, this event, forgotten almost immediately after its occurrence, changed the entire course of world history. The cross became the banner before which the entire world bowed, and everything that happened since took place under its shadow. Including the conquest of America.
  But perhaps if another event, equally insignificant at first glance, were to occur here, in a world not yet called New World or America... For example, the emergence of a man who would break the inexorable force of events—thanks to his knowledge, something impossible for others here and now... Then, perhaps, the flow of history, having encountered an obstacle, would change its direction, and a new world would be born. Whether it would be better or worse than the one Cromlech left behind when he departed for Membrane—he had no idea. He simply could do it, and if he could, then he should have.
  At least I have to try.
  Egrossimoion passed its fatal point and established a great kingdom there—covering almost the entire habitable surface of the planet. This territory on ancient Mars was much smaller and more compact than on Earth. This meant that distances were covered much more quickly, making it possible to control a vast empire. The Egrosi's physical attributes—almost three meters tall, strong limbs, and the ability to exist in water—made things even easier. They were also aided by the lower gravity compared to Earth. But all this is beside the point.
  The most important thing is the Egrosi's unshakable, genetically ingrained belief that the fate of the world depends on their actions, that they themselves sustain its existence—under the watchful eye of the great Adelinaam. Their world didn't require intervention from above to be saved—the Egrosi themselves saved it.
  Something similar was believed here in America. There was no place here for the doctrine of humanity's original fall into sin and the world's corruption as a result. Consequently, there was no need for a Savior. The world was saved here by human blood—the blood of the king, shed during rituals, the blood of warriors, shed in battle, the blood of victims...
  Whirling his bloody axe above his head, Kromlech let out a wild cry, striking terror into the hearts of his enemies. His army responded with a furious howl. The Kukul ranks wavered. They'll run any minute...
  For twelve years, he sat on the royal "jaguar mat" in Yukuabnal—after leaving Mars, with no idea where the Membrane would take him. None of the Passersby knew. Cromlech could only assume his destiny was Maya. However, he had good reasons... But he ended up in Yukuabnal. The heyday of the Classic Maya period. Back then, this city wasn't yet the magnificent and bloody Chichen Itza of the Mayan decline—just an ordinary Yucatán settlement. Well, he would make it extraordinary—that was his destiny. The period he found himself in was a bifurcation point for the region, a time when history could have gone either way—he just needed a nudge.
  He was quite familiar with the political situation of the time and place. Ironically, if not for his work deciphering Mayan script in a past life, continued by his numerous students and followers, no one would have known about it in his time. But now he knew that in the distant west, on the other side of the Gulf of Mexico, the great City of the Gods, whose hegemony extended as far as Yucatán, was in decline. The military and political alliance of Mayan dynasties dependent on the City of the Gods in Mexico was led by the king of Yaxkukul. This city, which Kukulkan was now preparing to take, was now in the process of being conquered.
  But before Kukulkan's warriors had annexed many regions, including the powerful Serpent Kingdom of Kanul. Cromlech knew that in the world he had abandoned, Kanul had ultimately defeated Yashkukul and briefly became the most powerful kingdom. Now it would no longer be. And rightly so—the Maya had never been able to create a full-fledged empire. There were many reasons for this: the nature of warfare, which required only an oath of allegiance from the defeated king, which was then easily broken. Or, alternatively, the killing of the enemy king and, along with him, the entire population of his kingdom. And poor communications—cities stood amid jungles and mountains, and all troops moved only on foot. Apparently, there were many other factors, most of which Cromlech, like all historians of his time, was simply unaware of.
  But it doesn't matter—he will overcome the circumstances and set history on a new path. Although there is still much, much more to do. Too much for one person. Even for him.
  The "Crocodiles" continued to advance stubbornly and persistently, crushing the enemy like a combine harvester crushing ripe wheat. Ahead, the holkans, protected by long spears, crushed the enemy with macuahuitls, chaka axes, and short, massive-headed striking spears crafted by Kukulkan in the style of the Zulu iklwa. These weapons were cast from copper, like the bosses on the guards' shields.
  The innovations Kukulkan introduced were sometimes hampered by the underdevelopment of the material and technical base. For example, he was still unable to establish bronze metallurgy. Copper, silver, and gold came from Mexico, but even there they had not yet alloyed copper with arsenic or tin to produce bronze. He himself did not know how to do this either.
  “It’s okay,” he thought, advancing ahead of his soldiers. “Everything will be alright.”
  The remnants of the routed enemy army hastily hid behind the city walls. The warriors of Chichen Itza mercilessly finished off the stragglers. They took no prisoners—there was no need, as the divine Kukulkan had forbidden mass human sacrifice. True, he was unable to eradicate it entirely. And he couldn't—after all, the world was saved by sacrificial blood. Therefore, soon, when Yashkukul fell, he, Kukulkan, "with the power of his spear" would capture King Wak-Chanal-K'awiil and sacrifice him. He would flay him, dress himself in it, and perform a ritual dance before the gods. There was no other way. This was his path, one he had embarked on long ago—in the fabulous city of Leningrad, when a stone pierced his head and somehow inserted him into the Membrane system, extending into space and time.
  Or maybe it happened much earlier, long before his birth...
  Professor Evgeny Kromlekh stopped and leaned wearily on his royal weapon, the hilt of which was covered in jaguar skin. The battle was won; it was time to begin the siege and assault. Low-ranking warriors from the vassal estates were already scurrying like ants, setting up siege towers. Others were setting up battering rams and catapults.
  Like this.
  And the distant City of the Gods will not come to the aid of its vassal. Just thirty years ago, in Iceland, a place no one here had ever heard of, a huge volcano erupted. Ash from the eruption spewed copiously into the atmosphere and spread throughout it, blocking the sun's rays. The world grew colder, and food became scarcer. Much scarcer. This was reflected here, in the Mayan lands, and for the human anthill of the City of the Gods, the crop failures became a true catastrophe. Famine, unrest, and then terrible uprisings began. In the end, the capital of the empire was burned and abandoned. Much later, its ruins would be discovered by the Aztecs and named Teotihuacan. But if Cromlech succeeds, it will most likely be something different.
  “We will go north to Mexico, and south to Costa Rica,” thought Cromlech, looking at the doomed city with its sixty thousand inhabitants. “We will have our own copper, tin, gold. And iron. We will reach the Pacific Ocean and sail to South America, to the Andes—they are already making bronze there. We will trade with them and bring their technology here. Maybe llamas and alpacas too. And definitely potatoes. All this will give us a springboard. And then – voyages west, to the Philippines, Indonesia, Japan, China. Importing technology, materials, and specialists. Horses and steel for the army, livestock and crops to feed them. A great empire from California to Colombia, and maybe even more. But that’s for my sons. And for those who come after us, the Mayans.”
  “Begin the siege,” Kukulkan said to the military leaders, Batab and Nakom.
  Noticing the look of hidden hatred on the high priest who had approached with them, he gestured for him to come closer.
  "Prepare the sacrifice, Ahab Kan Hol," he said. "In gratitude for the victory, the king will offer his blood to the gods before the army."
   21
  
  Ilona Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Trans-Siberian Railway. January 10, 2030.
  The frozen Baraba steppe had been rushing past the compartment window since morning—for many hours now. The flat, lifeless landscape drove Ilona into a quiet rage, but she couldn't tear herself away from it. If she turned away from the window, she'd be forced to look at the faces of her fellow passengers on the "Tsarevich," and she certainly didn't want that. Her fear of people had grown stronger lately, and she couldn't do anything about it.
  Fear had been her primary motivator for the past few days—ever since she'd come to, completely naked, in her office. From that moment on, she acted quickly, precisely, efficiently, and almost mechanically, like a well-programmed robot. And beneath all this cold-blooded activity lay a seething chasm of burning fear.
  But it didn't cloud her mind, didn't interfere with the clear realization that she needed to escape—fast, far, and as secretly as possible. In fact, she'd already formulated her plan in the driverless taxi that was driving her home from the institute, still in her dressing gown.
  She was an experienced traveler and knew how to navigate the world, including stealthily and through unconventional means. At home, after showering, changing, and grabbing a bite to eat—she didn't even notice the taste, just needed it—she knocked on her neighbor's door and asked to use his phone: "My terminal is broken, and I urgently need to talk to someone." She called Vladimir and spoke quietly for a few minutes. Then she called Moscow, but the conversation was shorter.
  Returning to my apartment, I sat down at the computer and booked a plane ticket to Mexico City for the next day. I entered Señora Ilona Delgado's Mexican passport information—dual citizenship is often useful.
  Then I began methodically packing—I didn't need much. The backpack turned out to be heavy, but compact.
  I set my alarm for five in the morning, undressed, and went to bed. I eyed the Relanium blister still lying on the nightstand with suspicion, but didn't reach for it. And I was right to do so—I fell asleep as soon as I turned off the light and laid my head on the pillow.
  Her dreams were grandiose and terrifying. She was once again floating through the water passages beneath Chichen Itza. But then something blazing with crimson flames appeared before her, seeming to fill the universe. Ilona was overcome with icy terror, but something from the center of this flame drew her with an irresistible force. She tried to resist, but in vain—the flames literally sucked her into their depths, and finally she plunged into an ocean of blinding pain. The pain, however, immediately ceased, and Ilona was once again floating through the tunnels. But it was no longer her, and her body was no longer hers. She felt a calm, natural lightness—as if this black abyss of Xibalba were her home.
  And another swam beside her—one just like her. Ilona saw the cream of his eyes. A man?.. At least she felt him as a man, furtively admiring the shimmer of his scales, the graceful waving of his powerful tail, propelling his body through the water.
  And then she found herself on the street of a southern city with palm trees, brightly dressed bronze-skinned and black-skinned inhabitants, and houses of strange architecture. She felt her youthful body, free of pain signals. But something made her uneasy... Or rather, she was afraid, and this fiery fear compelled her to move, drawing her away from the unknown danger.
  The man was still right next to her, walking side by side. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and, without any surprise, but with joy, recognized Evgeny. He was the same age they'd met, dressed in unusual clothes, and also clearly anxious.
  However, Ilona's anxiety did not prevent her from looking with pleasure at his broad shoulders, strong body, and high forehead with a deep dent.
  Then the dream changed again. Ilona found herself in a dimly lit room, and something before her gleamed mysteriously. Ghostly outlines emerged from the darkness—like a window into another world. Realizing she was looking at an old, dusty mirror, she moved closer and peered into her own face—the face of young Ilona Linkova, whose whole life was still ahead of her. But... It was both hers and not hers—as if the girl looking at Ilona knew something she hadn't even suspected.
  "Who are you?" Ilona whispered, and saw the girl's lips move in the same question.
  These words appeared in the mirror as an inscription, flickered and gradually disappeared.
  Ilona peered more closely, and then a wave of terror—even more acute than before—swept over her again. She saw her reflection begin to change horribly—the terrifying eyes of Carol Tash, or rather, the unknown creature hiding within that shell, were approaching her.
  Ilona tried to resist the violence here too, but she couldn't do anything—the eyes, which had become bottomless abysses, came close, and she fell with a scream into the impenetrable abyss.
  As often happens in dreams, mortal terror yanked her out of the nightmare. But not from the dream. There Ilona was again, gazing at her youthful reflection. The fear was gone, but a nagging anxiety remained—like the reminder of a toothache, a warning at the edge of consciousness that the pain would return.
  And she returned—when the reflection began to change again. It wasn't a reflection anymore, though—Ilona found herself clutched tightly by a woman, and it wasn't Carol or whoever she was. And it was hard to even call it a woman, or even a human being: the face of a dead man, yellowish-gray, with disgusting purple spots, bloated, with one eye squeezed shut and the other wide-open, cloudy, unseeing. The monster's neck was tightly bound with a coarse rope, almost lost in the swollen flesh.
  The lilac lips moved, and a blackened tongue struggled between sharp yellow teeth. A foul stench wafted from Ilona's mouth, and words spewed forth, instantly transforming into a floating inscription in Mayan symbols:
  - Welcome to Xibalba!
  Ilona screamed and tried to break free, but the dead woman's embrace tightened, cracking her bones. The terrifying face grew ever closer, and a huge tongue lolled out and licked Ilona's eyelid.
  She realized with desperate clarity that she was dying, and dying terribly. Her head clouded over, and a distant hum arose, a precursor to nonexistence. But the hum continued, and it seemed to Ilona as if it were breaking free from the fabric of her nightmare, contradicting it.
  The hum turned into a ringing sound—the distant, muffled sound of a bell. Ilona reached out to it with all her being—she needed some support to emerge from the horror in which she was lost. It worked—the hanged woman's face began to fade, her embrace weakened, and soon disappeared altogether. The ringing also died down. Ilona found herself lying in her bed, but she couldn't move, and her heart was pounding wildly. But she was back in reality, and she was alive.
  She lay in the same position for a long time, coming to her senses, before she found the strength to get up and do her morning chores.
  Later, a mechanically efficient rhythm took over again. Sipping hot coffee, the taste of which she couldn't taste, Ilona ordered a taxi to Pushkin Airport. She microwaved a croissant and took orange juice, butter, cheese, and yogurt from the refrigerator. She ate breakfast, still unable to taste it. She dressed carefully and warmly. She stowed her backpack in a huge duffel bag. She vaped briefly, sitting on a chair in the hallway, until she received a message that a car was waiting outside.
  She didn't notice the taxi being followed, but that didn't mean it wasn't there. It probably was.
  "Stop here," she told the robot, paying for the ride through her terminal. "Wait ten minutes."
  She pulled her bag out of the trunk and fluttered into the mall. She had no intention of returning to the taxi, and the ten minutes her pursuers would wait for her and the robot would be plenty of time. If she hurried.
  Ilona chose the shopping center in advance for two reasons. The first was that her bank's ATM there dispensed large bills. Praying that it wouldn't be empty, Ilona activated her account. The ATM wasn't empty, and she withdrew almost all her money.
  Having stuffed a pile of bills into her jeans pocket, she walked to the outerwear department, grabbed the first jacket she saw from the hanger, and locked herself in the fitting room. She turned her white reversible down jacket inside out, unzipped the oversized, not-so-functional hood, and stuffed it into her bag. From there, she pulled out a pair of reindeer-skin pimas, which had been fashionable last season, and pulled them on in place of her winter heeled boots. She put the boots in her bag, too. She replaced the hood with a black knit cap. To top it off, she put on large glasses—she usually wore contacts. Completely transformed, she left the fitting room with her backpack, leaving her bag with unnecessary things—it was unlikely to stay there for long. She hung the jacket back up and walked out of the department, where no one paid her any attention.
  Descending to the first floor on the other side of the complex, she emerged onto the street and entered an archway, which led her into a network of walk-through courtyards—one of the few remaining in central Moscow. This was the second advantage of the shopping center she had chosen.
  At that moment, the disposable phone rang. The prudent Ilona always kept a couple of them just in case, and yesterday she gave the number to the operator of the intercity taxi company she used several times. It was the taxi robot waiting for her at the exit from the courtyard.
  Two and a half hours later, she arrived in Vladimir. Diana lived there—a college friend with whom Ilona had once had a lot of fun, but with whom she'd only corresponded and occasionally called in recent years. Di worked as a senior researcher at the Vladimir-Suzdal Nature Reserve and was now living alone and bored—which meant she was perfect for Ilona's purposes. Di, whose image was something between a saint and a cabaret singer, hadn't lost her sense of adventure with age. They talked all night in the kitchen, surrounded by clouds of vape vapor, drinking liters of coffee. Ilona recounted in detail the story she'd thought up along the way, how she'd foolishly gotten involved with a certain high-ranking cop, who, in reality, turned out to be a perpetually drunken lout and a complete beast. And with no way to get rid of him peacefully, Ilona had secretly left Moscow and planned to sit it out in the provinces while he continued his rampage and searched for her through his channels. Dee liked the story, and she firmly promised her friend that she would participate in the escape.
  That morning, they pulled a classic train stunt: they arrived at the station just as the high-speed Trans-Siberian "Tsesarevich" was arriving. Di, after a call from Ilona, had bought a ticket in her name. Ilona accompanied her as a send-off, but stayed behind, while Di exited and waved after the departing train. The "Tsesarevich" stopped in Vladimir for only three minutes, so the conductors had no time to check the passengers' identities—everything went smoothly.
  ...Finally turning away from the winter steppe, Ilona continued to ponder her next steps. She hadn't been to her small homeland for ten years, but she had no doubt that Galya, her sister, would understand everything correctly and shelter her. Another question was how reliable this shelter would be: after all, it seemed the intelligence services of two superpowers were interested in her. Not to mention those creepy seers... So, although Ilona had turned off her personal terminal back in Moscow and tried to avoid security cameras, she couldn't be completely sure she had covered her tracks. Of course, they already knew she hadn't flown to Mexico. But maybe they were still looking for her in Moscow, so she had some leeway until they picked up her trail again.
  In Krasnoyarsk, she'll at least get some rest and think about what to do next. For now, that "next" was a dark tunnel for her.
  Ilona glanced indifferently at her fellow passengers in the compartment, with whom she'd barely exchanged a few words, and was about to turn back to the window when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. For some unknown reason, her heart sank. She turned her head sharply and saw a girl standing in the doorway.
  At first, she thought she'd opened the compartment doors. But then Ilona realized that behind her was anything but the aisle of the train car. It was dark, but the space was clearly vast.
  Ilona's gaze shifted to her face and froze. She knew that face! It was...
  “It’s me!” flashed a crazy thought.
  Yes, she had seen that face in a dream just recently—the face of student Ilona Linkova. But... not quite her—some other Ilona.
  "Who is it?" another thought burst in. "It can't be me!"
  "Who are you?" the girl asked, looking at Ilona with wild eyes.
  She was dressed in a dirty, wrinkled sundress, her hair was disheveled, her face was slightly dirty.
  "Who are you?" Ilona repeated after her, confused.
  But the girl jerked and disappeared. Ilona's eyes flashed to the closed compartment door. The passenger sitting opposite her looked at her with fear.
  “Sorry,” Ilona muttered and lay down, turning away to hide her face.
  Let it be just a hallucination caused by nervous exhaustion. Hallucinations are very good and convenient. For example, she doesn't have to puzzle over why the voice that at the last moment shouted something behind her in a language vaguely reminiscent of Spanish is so familiar.
  
   Kukulkan-Quetzalcoatl. Chichen Itza. 573–601 AD
  High Priest Ahab Kan Hol... When Kukulkan arrived in Chichen Itza, he immediately became his chief worshiper, servant, and advisor. But the great god-king declared to his confidants that his fellow gods no longer required human sacrifices. They were now to offer only snakes and dogs, while he, Kukulkan, since he now dwelled among men, was to be given only flowers and butterflies.
  An oppressive silence fell among the courtiers, but everyone bowed their heads in agreement. Only the priest couldn't resist, casting his first angry glance at his god.
  ...At night, Kukulkan runs through the dark passages of his palace, brandishing an iron axe. He pursues the enemy who attacked him in his sleep and inflicted a terrible, painful wound on his stomach. All his guards have disappeared; he is alone here, in suddenly unfamiliar rooms and corridors. He chases for a long time, pressing his left hand against the wound, but blood still stains his path. He catches up with the shadowy, ever-blurring figure and raises his weapon. The enemy turns. Ahav Kan Hol stares straight into Kukulkan's face with furious anger.
  The king deals a terrible blow, but the priest suddenly transforms into a coyote, scurries away, and disappears. Darkness descends upon Kukulkan.
  He came to many days later and learned he had been poisoned and was dying in terrible agony. The poison from the forest vine was deadly, and all the doctors were at a loss—there was no cure. The people of Chichen Itza wept in despair. But out of nowhere, a village sorcerer, Ah-Men, appeared in the palace. They say he was unremarkable, poorly but neatly dressed, often smiling ingratiatingly and bowing.
  Somehow, he was allowed to see the dying king and left alone. To this day, neither the courtiers nor the captain of the guard can understand how they could have agreed to such a thing. But... the sorcerer emerged from the halach-vinik and declared him healthy. The courtiers rushed to the bedroom. Kukulkan stopped moaning and thrashing, his face straightened, his breathing evened out. He slept soundly and peacefully.
  And Ah-men disappeared, as if he had never been there. They searched for him for a long time, but they couldn't find him.
  And Kukulkan also learned that on the same night that he was poisoned, Ahab Kan Hol died - he tripped in his house and split his skull open on a stone slab.
  ...The blood of a king—it can do anything! It can nourish the gods, revive nature, grant harvests—prolong the lives of people. And the greater the pain the king endured when he gave his blood, the greater its power.
  He's scared, but he has to do it. He needs something to replace the thousands of hearts that would otherwise be torn out of the victims.
  His queen kneels before him. For her, there are no questions: she, too, knows she's doing the right thing, and this deed is of immense importance. Her face is pale and focused. She opens her mouth wide and sticks out her tongue as far as it will go.
  Kukulkan, standing before her at full height, naked to the waist, covered in deeply symbolic paint, unwinds his loincloth.
  The crowd around the pyramid, at the top of which the royal couple is performing the sacred rite, froze. Thousands of tense dark faces, eyes glittering like precious stones. They want to see this.
  In one hand the king takes a kokan - the spine of a stingray - and in the other - his male nature, and, not wanting to drag it out, he sharply thrusts the sharpest cartilage, piercing the flesh right through.
  The pain is blindingly insane.
  But this is just the beginning. He hands the thorn to the queen, then takes a thick cord woven from grass fibers and carefully threads it into the wound.
  There is no need to talk about pain anymore - it was as if he was born with it, there was nothing left in the world except this great pain.
  The queen pierces her tongue with a thorn, which also begins to ooze blood. Not a muscle moves in the woman's face—she's already in a trance.
  Kukulkan hands her the blood-swollen end of the cord, still in it, and she threads it through her tongue, pulling it further, increasing the bleeding in herself and her husband, causing new outbreaks of wild pain.
  So they stand, strung together by bloody bonds. This doesn't just resemble intercourse—it is, in fact, intercourse, but not of this world. Their sons were born from physical intercourse, but for them to possess the transcendental power of kukh, the king and queen must unite their blood in the spiritual realms.
  “My sons, flowers of my stingray’s thorn, may the kukh be with you,” whispers Kukulkan, plunging into ecstasy caused by pain shock and loss of blood.
  Heavy cherry drops fall onto the paper spread between the royal couple, drawing strange symbols on it—it's as if the blood itself is writing the code of this cruel world. The priests gather the paper, place it on a brazier, and set it alight. Thus will the blood free its kukh, feed the gods, and carry the king to their abode.
  Inhaling the scent of burnt blood and intoxicating herbs, Kromlech sees a huge Serpent of Vision rise from the brazier, somehow resembling a feathered centipede. Or a thick, shaggy living rope, like an umbilical cord connecting Kukulkan to the other world. The serpent bristles its green feathers, opens its scarlet mouth with terrifying fangs, and plays with a thin tongue resembling one of the Egrosi.
  A human face emerges from the mouth. It's very familiar to Cromlech—because it's his own.
  “Look,” the double living in the Snake tells him, “look at this world and the people in this world.”
  His voice fills the entire universe—like Kukulkan's pain. Or perhaps this voice is his pain...
  - You crumple worlds like paper, but you are not God.
  “I know,” Kukulkan answers barely audibly.
  "You must hear!" rumbles the Cromlech from the Serpent. "You must understand! You must know!"
  "What?!" Kukulkan shouts.
  But the vision disappears.
  Kukulkan finds himself lying exhausted on the ground, gazing at the distant skies. The pain has dulled, become almost tolerable. Although now the memory of it will never leave him.
  "Khalach-vinik has found the kukh!" the priest proclaims. "Khalach-vinik has brought the kukh into the world!"
  "Kukh?.." thinks Cromlech. "Who is this?.."
  The new high priest stares at him with dark eyes. Is Kukulkan stricken by pain and intoxication, or is there truly hatred lurking somewhere deep within them?
  ...The royal dance is not just a dance, but a cosmic act. The king's blood—kuh—sustains the life of the universe, and the dance—takh—gives it dynamism. Without kukh and takh, the movement of stars and planets would cease, the seasons would cease to change, and the continuous sequence of history-making events would cease.
  Today, the halach-vinik Kukulkan dances with a shukpi staff in honor of the god Kavila, the patron of kings, a young god who rose from underground.
  "And also the hypostases of the god Mars," thinks Cromlech, performing slow but complex dance steps to languid, otherworldly music in the clouds of intoxicating incense smoke. And these movements truly resemble the water-bound, insinuating movements of egrosi dances.
  The cromlech no longer knows where it is—in the Yucatan jungle or the Martian grottoes. Or perhaps in a shaman's tent deep in Siberia... Most likely, it is beyond all these places, in nowhere and never—the realm of the gods.
  A staff rises above his head, fluttering its luxurious feathers. It symbolizes the royal quetzal bird. But Cromlech sees that it is a feathered cross.
  And he dances around a cross set up on the royal dance floor, entwined with plants, with a quetzal on top. This is the Heart of Heaven—the ladder by which the king ascends to the world of the gods. The learned Cromlech understands that this is a representation of the Tree of Life.
  But this is a cross. Evgeny knows that this symbol is sacred throughout America—from the Andes to the Great Lakes.
  Why?
  He is again in the damp depths of Egrossimoion, listening to the speeches of the strange Egrosi.
  “We cannot have either an enemy-antagonist of God, or a cross as a symbol of infinity”...
  Heenaroo's reptilian eyes are suddenly replaced by another look, human, but also deceptively ingratiating.
  "Magic had almost no effect on the people of the cross"...
  And another look came to mind - furious, animal-like.
  "Before you leave, take this off!"
  The drums' quickening rhythm suddenly fell silent, and the king froze, staff raised. The crowd, raptly listening to every movement of the dance, held its breath.
  On the branches of the World Tree, the king suddenly saw a strangled woman looking at him with a dead gaze.
  Ish-Tab!
  "Get out!" the halach-vinik shouts at her at the peak of his trance and falls to the ground.
  When the time came to apply new designs to the king's body, which he had taken from his visions, he ordered the tattoo artist to depict a cross in the middle of his chest...
  ...The priests endured for a long time, gathering their strength; much time passed before they tried again. And then they almost succeeded. During this time, Kukulkan's jaguars, from whom he had created a fully functioning secret police, uncovered many conspiracies against the king. The conspirators died in agony, but none of them ever betrayed the new high priest—Ahab Kan Acha. And he bided his time, bowing before the king and praising all his decisions as the voice of God.
  And again it was poison, but this time it was applied to the kokan before the royal bloodletting. He performed the ritual together with his eldest son, Topiltsin; they were required to pierce their tongues.
  The cromlech saw a dark, resin-like drop on the thorn and understood everything. But he could no longer stop the ritual—the people, awaiting the royal blood, would not accept a refusal of the sacrifice. Under no circumstances.
  The cromlech looked at his son standing before him – tall, slender, unusually white-skinned, beautiful as a solitary cypress – and quietly said to him in Russian (it was a secret language that only the tsar and his heir were supposed to know):
  "I've been poisoned. When I fall, seize the priests and speak to the people. Maintain power. Conceal my death."
  Topiltsin was already an established sovereign. He nodded briefly, and only the glance he cast at his father harboured a hint of suffering.
  With an unshakable hand, Kukulkan brought the thorn to his far-protruding tongue.
  "I've done everything well," he thought. "It's time for me to go. Topiltsin will finish the rest."
  He thrust the cocaine sharply and didn’t have time to feel the pain—the world went dark.
  This time, the wise sorcerer didn't appear. Kukulkan regained consciousness many days later, struggling to escape the web of oppressive, haunting visions. Apparently, his body was truly extraordinary, to have resisted for so long and finally overcome the poison that should have killed him on the spot.
  He awoke in a small room hidden in the depths of his palace, with its deliberately labyrinthine corridors and numerous secret chambers. Topiltzin ruled. He had done everything right: when his father fell, he ordered the jaguars to seize Ahab Kan Acha and his two assistants and addressed the people. He proclaimed that evil forces had once again attacked his father, but he had vanquished them, departing to join his brother gods. The hypnotic power of this born leader's speech was so powerful that the people did not doubt his words.
  Kukulkan was hidden in the depths of the palace. Topiltzin, convinced his father would die, assumed power. He had waited too long for this moment, but did not kill the king—as any other heir to the throne from Mesoamerica would undoubtedly have done without a twinge of conscience. Or from anywhere, for that matter. But Topiltzin was raised, after all, on principles somewhat different from those of other princes of the era...
  Together with his brothers, he brutally suppressed the rebellion, and then personally chopped the corpses of the conspiratorial priests into pieces with his father's iron axe. They were fed to dogs, which, in turn, were sacrificed to Kukulkan, who had departed to the gods.
  But Cromlech was alive. He was already rising from his bed, taking a few steps around the small room. His tame jaguarundi, Aska—his favorite, treated with no less honor by the courtiers than he himself—followed him like a tail. He was told that she herself had found him in the palace and, for many days, as he hovered between life and death, lay at his head, purring softly.
  When Kukulkan had finally gained strength, Topiltsin came to him.
  "Father, you cannot return," said the stern forty-year-old man without preamble—an old man by local standards. But full of life, strength, ideas, and—ambition.
  Cromlech only nodded - his son was right.
  "I'm going to go..." he began. "Far away. To Mexico, to the City of the Gods."
  Now Topiltsin nodded.
  “You will leave alone,” he didn’t order, he just stated.
  "I'll just take Aska," Kromlekh smiled slightly, but immediately became serious again. "I'll leave at night, through a secret passage; no one should be around."
  “Father,” Topiltsin said after a short silence.
  He spoke Russian.
  "I know you have a goal. You've been guiding my brothers and me toward it since birth. And we've followed it, though none of us know what it is yet. I'll continue to do what you started. But perhaps you could explain right now what you've been working toward all your life?"
  Now it is Kukulkan's turn to be silent.
  “Son, I... I don’t know anymore,” it sounded muffled and almost tragic.
  Topiltsin shuddered and looked intently at his father.
  “You know,” Cromlech continued, collecting his thoughts, “that I am not of this world...”
  “Yes,” the son nodded, “you came from Xibalba, where the gods are.”
  Cromlech shook his head.
  "There are no gods there. And I am not a god, and you are not a god either."
  Topiltsin remained silent.
  "I came here confident in what I was doing. I did it. Everything has changed and will never be the same again. You won't understand this, forgive me, I can't explain it, but believe me, it's true. And... I had no other choice from the start, I had to do this. And you and your descendants will have to continue it. Such is the will of the gods, if you will. Such is my will. But I am only an instrument of heaven. Do you understand?"
  Cromlech fell silent: he had more to say, but he couldn't let his son understand that his divine father doubted his destiny. For he did.
  Topiltsin nodded thoughtfully.
  "I may not quite understand, but I feel it's right. And I will do so. Especially since it doesn't conflict with my plans... However," he glanced sharply at his father, "you yourself arranged for my plans to coincide with your aspirations, didn't you?"
  Kukulkan placed both hands on his son's shoulders, looking intently into his bottomless blue eyes - as if into a mirror.
  - I need to get ready, Topiltsin.
  Turning to his bed, he took out from underneath it a thick leather codex, which he had ordered to be brought from its hiding place as soon as he came to, and wrote a few more things there.
  "I've been writing this my whole life here. It's all here for you, your brothers, and your children. It's your right to follow it or not, but you know I've never demanded anything bad from you."
  Topiltsin nodded, taking the codex with the teachings from his father.
  - Goodbye, father.
  — Farewell, flower of my thorn. Take care of the empire.
  Late at night, a poor merchant, hunched over to conceal his height, left the capital. In his hand, he carried a tame jaguarundi in a branch cage.
  The wanderings of the god-king continued.
   22
  
  Eugene Kromlekh. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 6, 1980 (12.18.7.2.13, and 7 Ben, and 16 Shul)
  "You're the one who ended up here," Delgado answered Cromlech's question mockingly. "And I found you."
  “I’m sleeping,” thought Evgeny, reading his words in the air.
  This was a statement, not a guess—Kromlech had experienced such dreams since childhood. True, they were rarely so vivid and believable. And these dreams always signified something important in his waking life. Therefore, Evgeny took the current vision very seriously.
  He was also consoled by the fact that the passionate feelings he had just experienced for a nearly unknown girl were clearly the result of a sleepy delusion.
  “Well, then you might as well take her, since you’re both asleep,” Delgado remarked, as if he too had read his thoughts like words.
  Why shouldn't he be a telepath in this illusory world?
  “You can’t lose your human form even in your sleep,” Evgeny said instructively, sitting down on the straw.
  As always in such a state, this happened completely without the participation of muscles, by sheer willpower.
  “Really?” Delgado chuckled ironically and turned into a coyote.
  It happened without any werewolf-like special effects, like convulsions—he simply suddenly became a coyote. And his green eyes glowed with a feral fire even when he still looked human.
  It was precisely a coyote, of which Evgeny had seen many in Russian Atlantis during the war, and not an African wolf, which one might expect to see here.
  Well then...
  “Hello, little coyote,” said Cromlech.
  "Greetings again, Kromlekh-cin," the coyote replied politely. "Are you and your companion well?"
  His tone was sarcastic, very different from the slightly saccharine manner of Antonio, the Russian consulate volunteer. However, the voice was undoubtedly the same.
  "What do you want?" Kromlech discarded the local formal politeness—it was absurd in such circumstances. And it was absurd to address a coyote as "you."
  Delgado didn't seem to be particularly attached to conventions either.
  "You, Eugene Kromlekh," he declared. "We need you."
  — Who is this for, us?
  The coyote sat up and scratched his ear with his hind paw.
  "It's hard to explain," he said thoughtfully. "Well, for example, to the traditionally minded citizens of Aztlán, perhaps... We call ourselves 'people of knowledge,' machiztli in Nahuatl. Here, in the New World, we're called brujos. Sometimes we're called Toltecs, which isn't quite right..."
  "I understand," Cromlech nodded. "Ancient Atlantean magic."
  "'Understanding' and 'knowing' are not the same thing. Just as 'looking' and 'seeing' are not the same thing," the coyote remarked pompously.
  Evgeny ignored this statement.
  "But your practices are illegal. In Aztlan, at least."
  "There, yes," the coyote nodded, quite humanly. "The priests of the One Tloquenahuac don't tolerate competition—though we don't compete with them. But in the south, in Tahuantinsuyu, and in the north, our tradition is not persecuted. And here, in Eastern Aztlan, too. In fact, it's not approved of either..."
  A searing wave of anger suddenly washed over Evgeny.
  “Ish-Tab...” he hissed with hatred.
  However, the beast shook his head in a completely human manner.
  "We do not practice primitive cults, Kromlekh-tsin. Those who killed your wife acted without our knowledge, and we are in no way involved in their actions."
  - Who are they?
  — A group of nationalist mystics, some of whom serve in the Jaguar Department. Something like an informal order.
  — So, they are under the protection of the counterintelligence of the Great Aztlan?
  "She uses them. Mostly the Cihuacoatl, who, as you probably know, controls the jaguars. But the eagles are also interested in you—the intelligence service; they've been keeping tabs on you, too. What the Huay-tlatoani wants from you—I can only guess."
  — And what do you... seers have to do with this? Do you also work for the Great Aztlan?
  The more he asks, the more he'll know. And he really needs that right now.
  "No, no," a sarcasm looked strange on the beast's face. "The great overseas homeland is, of course, our closest ally, but its secret operations in our country are not exactly welcome. Our government prefers to turn a blind eye to them, but will not participate in them under any circumstances. We are, you see, largely dependent on Europe here... So the people from across the sea have ruined our entire game with you. That's why I'm here now. Believe me, it took some effort to enter your dreams, and it's not a very pleasant procedure at all."
  - So why do you need me?
  The coyote tried to put a friendly smile on his face. It looked creepy.
  "You're a powerful seer. Potentially, of course. I think you already know that. We'd love to have you join our very elite circle."
  “You could have told me that in the usual way,” Cromlech replied.
  He didn't believe Delgado one iota.
  "On the path of power, there is no 'ordinary image,'" the coyote remarked gravely. "We are hunters, we are always hunting. And when passing on a line of knowledge, too. Especially in this case. The prospective student must be tracked, lured, and captured. That's how magic works."
  “It doesn’t look very impressive,” Evgeny chuckled.
  “Well, that’s how it goes,” the coyote snapped and turned into a fennec fox.
  The cutest miniature long-eared fox looked at Cromlech with affection.
  "Or maybe I'm lonely," his soft, melodic bark resembled singing, but formed into understandable words. "And I'm sure you're lonely too, Evgeny Kromlekh. And that makes you sad. And now it's become much, much sadder."
  Accustomed to self-analysis, Evgeny couldn't help but agree. Although this reference to the wise and sad book of the great Burgundian, who died in aerial combat, jarred him. But he merely shrugged.
  “If you’re sad, I’ll tame you,” the fox continued his literary allusions, circling around the man.
  "Why do you need this?" asked Evgeny.
  “Because you can only know those things that you tame,” the fox looked straight at him with shining eyes.
  "Why do you need to know me?" Cromlech insisted.
  The game was starting to bore him.
  — We have a mutual interest in this matter.
  The fox transformed back into a man named Antonio—just as suddenly and naturally, Cromlech didn't even immediately notice the change. He also didn't notice that Delgado was once again addressing him as "you."
  "You, Evgeny Valentinovich, undoubtedly feel that your life is incomplete and largely devoid of meaning," the Aztlan spoke with the eloquence of a seasoned preacher. "And we have the power to give you that meaning. You can attain significant... almost divine power."
  "So, in your person, I'm dealing with gods?" Cromlech asked ironically.
  Antonio's words had stung him a little deep down. Yes, the sense of the meaninglessness of existence had often descended upon him unexpectedly, like an avalanche. Then he'd become gloomy and unsociable, and his life would be filled with empty and full bottles... Nika hated this state of his, but she had the tact and wisdom to leave him alone on such days. After a while, he'd come to his senses.
  Nika!..
  "Oh, come on, Evgeny Valentinovich," Delgado chuckled. "There are no gods. And no God either..."
  - What is there?
  — Tonal and nagual.
  Cromlech knew these terms from the realm of Atlantean shamanism.
  "No, no," Delgado protested. "I'm not talking about the meanings of these words you know: the individual life force of a person and his animal double. Those explanations are for the uninitiated."
  "I know these terms have multiple meanings," Cromlech nodded. "But what do you mean by them?"
  — What is... Tonal is an island, nagual is an ocean.
  - That is?
  Imagine you live alone on an island. There are palm trees with coconuts, white sand with black crabs crawling on it, a spring of water, your own hut, a forest inhabited by all sorts of animals and birds... In short, your world—familiar, customary, and habitable. This is your tonal. It also includes you—your body, mind, consciousness, and what you call your soul. You can comprehend and describe all of this in words.
  But around the island is the ocean, and it's completely incomprehensible to you. You don't know where it begins or ends, or if there even is one. You might say, "The ocean is vast and wet," but that's not a description of the ocean, but of your experience of it. Perhaps, in reality, it's tiny and dry—on the island, in your own tonal, you can't know that.
  But one day, the ocean—the Unknown—may rise, rise, and engulf your island. Then it—that is, you—will cease to exist. And the ocean will remain—as incomprehensible as when you still sat on your island.
  So, the ocean is the nagual. The tonal and the nagual are not an opposition or a dichotomy. They are two states of the world, fundamentally different and incomparable. Do you understand?
  Delgado looked like a wise professor facing an idiot first-year student.
  Kromlech nodded:
  "I think so. But above the island in the ocean there's also the sky... Does it somehow figure into your constructions?"
  "Don't quibble over metaphors," Delgado retorted with annoyance. "They're never precise. And as for understanding, it's fundamentally unknowable. I showed you the image of an island and the image of an ocean, but each of them is false. For now, you can consider the tonal to be order, something that can be described with words. And the nagual to be chaos, something indescribable. And also, every person has a tonal and a nagual, but not everyone is capable of containing and accepting them. You are capable."
  Eugene shrugged.
  — It seems you were just talking about unknowability...
  "Knowledge of something and cognition of it are two different things," Delgado reiterated his earlier aphorism. "However, it's even more complex. Everything has a tonal and a nagual—not just humans. Animals, stones, water, air, feelings. And the entire world. Everything we see and know is an island, a small speck of land in the ocean. Everything else is the incomprehensible nagual. However, there are people... or, shall we say, intelligent beings who are capable of bridging the gap between the tonal world and the nagual world."
  "Seers?" asked Evgeny.
  This interested him.
  "Perfect seers," Delgado replied after a barely perceptible pause. "There are very few of them. They can pass through the nagual, dissolve in it, but then regain existence and create a different tonal, a different reality. We call such people Passersby. Well, how can I explain this to you... You've studied Atlantean ethnography and know that the nagual is supposedly a zoomorphic patron spirit of the sorcerer. For the uninitiated, it's fine—you can describe the nagual that way. What difference does it make—it's fundamentally indescribable... However, in relation to the incomprehensible nagual, we are all uninitiated, since we need forms to comprehend them. Even powerful sorcerers who can enter the nagual and who reject the very idea of comprehending them—they still comprehend their experiences. And some, for example, transform into some kind of animal and tell the uninitiated that it is their nagual." And the uninitiated say, "Oh, this is very powerful sorcery." But the Passersby themselves create the world according to their own discretion—though perhaps they don't realize it. They are still in the tonal, but in a different one, created by their will. The uninitiated don't see all this—for them, nothing has changed in the world. And they have no idea that this is truly great magic. Do you understand?
  "I think so," Cromlech said thoughtfully. "God is God, and the world is the devil..."
  Delgado looked at him questioningly.
  "It's from an old novel by a Franco-Aztlan, 'The Three Jaguar Warriors,'" Cromlech explained. "The words of one of its heroes, a secret Christian. A good novel, though not quite what you were talking about."
  "And what does this mean?" asked the magician.
  "God is simply God because He is incomprehensible," said Evgeny. "But He is also good. And the world is comprehensible, but it is the devil. That is, not-God. That is, not-good."
  "No, no," Delgado protested, "that's not what I mean at all. 'Good' and 'bad' are lies, God is a lie. The tonal, by and large, is also a lie. Truth is the nagual."
  “But is the truth also a lie?” Evgeny looked at him sharply.
  Antonio didn't answer and was silent for a few seconds. Then he looked furiously into Evgeny's eyes.
  “You are the Passerby, Cromlech,” he said quietly.
  A ghostly scream suddenly rang out in Evgeniy’s head, and it seemed to him that he had heard it before:
  - Nengo! Membrane!
  It was a delusion within a dream, and it vanished immediately, so completely that it vanished from Evgeny's memory. But he suddenly realized that Delgado was finally telling the truth. He, Kromlech, really was the Passerby. Whatever that meant.
  “You mean to say,” he asked slowly, “that the world we are in now... our world... it has been changed... by passers-by?”
  Delgado shrugged.
  "How should I know? I'm not a Passerby, I'm just a seer..."
  — And... Does the passerby change in the world he created? Or does he remain who he was?
  "It depends on how you look at it," the mage said vaguely. "Of course, the Passerby's fate in the new world could probably change, too. And appearance. And thoughts. And feelings. But these are just variations of the same personality—what it could have become if... It's cyclical, you understand?"
  Now Kromlech shrugged his shoulders.
  "Imagine beads," Antonio began to explain. "They consist of a string and beads. Beads represent integrity and individuality. But a bead is also integrity and individuality, each bead. And the string connecting them is a line of force, a flow of homogeneous energy. We call this a 'cyclic being.' That is, in fact, each seer is a kind of multiple personality. Not only the Passerby—any powerful magician can create their own duplicate, and another, and a third... But taken together, it will still be a single personality. Moreover, each such 'bead'—the magician's personality—is also capable of creating its own autonomous copies. We call them doubles. So, from each 'bead' in this 'necklace' can also emanate 'pendants'..."
  “So, your name is Legion...” Cromlech noted.
  “Our name is Legion,” Delgado corrected with a kind smile.
  “I don’t feel like a ‘seer’, or a ‘Passer-by’, or whatever you like,” Cromlech stubbornly scowled.
  "But you are," Antonio countered softly. "And you know it. All your manual healings, your precognition, your strange dreams—like this... We've known about your existence for a long time, but only after your novel came out did it become clear to us that you're not just a nagual, but a Passerby."
  The cromlech grew cold.
  — Are you saying that I can make the world from my novel actually exist?
  “Rather, you made the world of your novel non-existent...” Delgado shook his head.
  - But how?
  — There are ways... There are entry points, cracks between worlds, places where existence thins and allows individuals to seep into the other.
  "Nengo! Door! Membrane!"
  "Do you want me to put everything back?" Evgeny asked after a long silence.
  "No, absolutely not," Delgado shook his head. "On the contrary, you'll have to do it again."
  Everything was jumbled in Evgeny's mind. He heard voices in many languages, even those not spoken in this world, but he understood them. He saw landscapes that could not belong to this world, this time, or even this planet. He saw grandiose ruins beneath an alien sky and bustling cities where now stood dead ruins. He saw the City underwater and the creatures that inhabited it. He saw a grand road, glowing with various lights, leading into eternity. It often branched into many paths. And at each fork stood he—Eugene Kromlekh. He simultaneously saw multiple versions of the same event, and for him, they were all equivalent. And he knew that everything he was seeing was not hallucinations, but the truth. It was so incomprehensible to a single human being that, had he not slept, he would have gone mad.
  He also saw Delgado watching him, and his glowing eyes held not only the usual amusement but also a deeply hidden fear. The Aztlanian involuntarily rubbed his neck and generally seemed somewhat confused.
  "Yes, impressive..." he finally said quietly. "I never thought I'd see such power... And you don't even know how to use it yet."
  “You said I’ve already done this,” Kromlech answered hoarsely.
  The last seconds shook him.
  "Yes," Delgado nodded, "that's what we assume. But even if that's the case, it was a different you, with a different destiny and life experiences. And the you of today still has all of this to go through."
  "I don't want to!" Cromlech answered decisively.
  “We all don’t want to submit to inevitability,” Delgado nodded.
  The cromlech shuddered as it saw that the phrase was written in the air in black and shimmered with steel.
  Evgeny felt a sense of hatred for the sinister creature before him; he wanted to pounce on it and tear it apart with his bare hands, though he knew it was pointless in a dream. However, it was unknown what he would have decided to do if Delgado hadn't suddenly raised his head uneasily.
  "That's not good," he said. "That's what we don't need right now."
  And he disappeared. And Evgeny woke up. He immediately realized he was back in the real world, and that it was a very hostile world. The barn doors had been blown off, apparently by an explosion, and something on the straw floor was emitting suffocating clouds of smoke.
  Ilona screamed.
  "Gas!" Kromlech realized. The pistol was already in his hand, and he fired at the shadowy figures emerging from the clouds in the doorway. But it didn't last long—a suffocating smell filled the air, and darkness fell.
   23
  
  Blagoy with Ezoeeveli. Egrossimoyon, about ten million Earth years ago
  The pauses in Heenaroo's speech weren't a sign of uncertainty, but rather emphasized the importance of the topic. So Blagoy waited silently for him to continue.
  "It wasn't just people who walked through Neon-goo," Heenaroo finally said. "Some Egrosi—few of them, but there are also Passersby."
  Cromlech had previously suggested something similar, although, for some reason, it never came up in his conversations with scientists or in the books he read.
  "We don't like to think about that," said Heenaroo, apparently perfectly aware of Evgeny's extraneous thoughts. Egrosi had been taught from childhood to conduct conversations in such a way as to keep thoughts not intended for them secret from their interlocutors. Blagoy had learned this too, but too often he mentally "leaked," a characteristic of young Egrosi and regarded with condescension by adults. However, most of his "earthly" thoughts were simply incomprehensible to his interlocutors here.
  "That's why we don't grieve for strangers," Egrosi continued. "It's almost a vital need for us."
  “Your worldview, as far as I understand, is strongly driven by a thirst for stasis,” Cromlech noted.
  "So," the interlocutor blinked. "It's eternal. Or rather, the fear of losing it is eternal. But after the Day of Wrath, it's like a mania. Hundreds of our philosophers and theologians have argued that the Horror was born when the great ancients broke stasis, thirsting for the unimaginable."
  - What?
  "Who knows... Maybe harmony. It's forbidden to partake of the circle's harmony. And the ancients prayed to the Serene Virgin for this. She doesn't crave sacrifices, so the Imperials refused to offer them. But it's not the Serene Virgin who preserves stasis—it's Adelinaam, and he needs blood. So the hungry lord brought down the hammer."
  Cromlech suddenly had a vague memory of something he'd read here... Some scrap of information, almost a hint. A name in the historical chronicles. Not even a name...
  "Nameless?!" As soon as his thought appeared, it became immediately clear to his interlocutor.
  Heenaroo flinched, as if he'd been pierced by a dart from a Grotto guard's combat rifle. However, the fleeting emotion left his face almost immediately, and he resumed his usual calm and relaxed demeanor.
  "The Nameless One isn't just..." he remarked. "It's not nice to name him. It's okay with me, but with others, it's a waste."
  The enormous amount of information about a completely unfamiliar world couldn't be immediately assimilated and structured by Cromlech's brain. The religious map of Martian history, while not as colorful and convoluted as that of Earth, is still quite diverse. So the character, referred to in some ancient chronicles as the Nameless One, the Seducer, or the Troublemaker, found himself on the periphery of Cromlech's perception. Having stumbled upon a couple of references to him, Evgeny assumed he was connected to some insignificant historical episode. But now he realized the matter was far more interesting than he had imagined.
  "Yes, it is important," Heenaroo said, once again taking in his interlocutor's thoughts. "Although few now contemplate his resurrection, and most find it repugnant, his teaching is alive."
  "He's a Passerby?" Cromlech snapped.
  Heenaro shrugged his shoulders in denial.
  "I don't think so. In any case, Neon-goo didn't pass. He... Although it doesn't matter - others did."
  The cromlech remained questioningly silent.
  “On Ezoeveli there is only one exit,” the interlocutor finally said.
  The cromlech blinked.
  "Yes, in Yucatan. But I took that as an entrance..."
  Heenaro ignored the remark, asking:
  — You studied the cultures there, didn’t you?
  Evgeny blinked again. This was interesting.
  "There's a myth about two brothers," Egrosi continued. "They defeated the evil gods and gave your relatives civilization."
  — Yes, the Popol Vuh calls them Hunahpu and Xbalanque, they descended to Xibalba, deceived the gods there, beat them at ball and...
  “Blagoi-dio,” Heenaroo interrupted him, “in fact, those gods are alive and they exist... Only their names... they called him differently...”
  Cromlech tried to comprehend what had been said, while Heenaroo continued:
  "That God is the Passerby. From Egrosi. He passed through Neon-goo to Ezoevel and became a man. Later, people invented that he had another brother."
  “Not only that,” Cromlech noted, having made some calculations.
  Indeed, on this subject, the Popol Vuh recounted a rather convoluted story involving the father of the god-brothers and their other, evil brothers, who turned into monkeys and went to heaven. And these evil brothers were associated... yes, they were associated with Mars, according to Mayan astrology.
  Evgeny almost forgot about his interlocutor—his brain was working furiously, comparing the disparate facts and assumptions he knew, from which a stunning picture emerged...
  If the Martians also possessed those capable of passing through the Membrane, then they must have appeared on Earth long before not only the arrival of humans in America, but also before the emergence of humanity. On Earth, the exit was fixed—unlike on Mars, where a Passerby could emerge anywhere, whether in the Grottoes or on the surface. However, in the latter case, certain death by suffocation awaited them within minutes.
  It turned out... It turned out that the aliens from Mars must have had a particular influence on Central American civilizations. And certain characteristics of these civilizations, which Cromlech, as a specialist, knew well, confirmed this...
  "They were playing ball, you know," Heenaroo observed, watching him closely. "The ball is the planet. They toss it around," he said, mimicking one of the positions of a ball player with a bizarre twist of his body. "This game, of course, in its aquatic version, was quite common in the Grottoes of Egrossimoion."
  "Yes, the divine twins have penetrated Xibalba..." Cromlech thought feverishly. "That is, they passed through the Membrane... to play catch with the gods of the underworld. Have they come to Mars?..."
  ...A sacred ball game. A game of planets. A game of planets. A bizarre dance of mutually influencing civilizations. Passersby in an alien world influence it, causing shifts—it's inevitable. And given the desynchronization of visits, this process is extremely convoluted and fraught with the most astonishing consequences.
  It was he, Cromlech, who was the first person to read the hieroglyphic texts describing the afterlife of the human soul. The Maya called it the "white flower." At the moment of death, it evaporated and entered the subterranean watery world. Death was symbolized by the phrase "entering the water."
  Cenotes - Membrana - Xibalba - departing and returning gods...
  Bolon Yokte, the Many-Coming One, one of the gods of Xibalba, the god of world-destroying catastrophe—he was also associated with Mars. And with the color red. And red is associated with the east, the side of rebirth. Or the red planet, from which the Great Wrath tore off its skin?
  "The one you called Bolon Yokte, he's also from here. And he's returned here," Heenaroo confirmed his thoughts.
  So this is what the Fourth Codex was trying to tell him, whoever wrote it - about the connection between Earth and Mars!..
  A vision of a cosmic dumbbell appeared before the Cromlech—two planets connected by a ghostly passage. Beings flowing from one world to another, bypassing physical laws. Flowing images and ideas. Flowing civilizations—communicating vessels... Perhaps the Egrosi would have long since perished in their Grottoes if they hadn't received periodic cultural injections from Earth. And on Earth, in turn, civilization might never have arisen, or it might have been completely different—if not for the Passersby from Mars...
  Stop!
  Heenaro, who had been watching him with open mockery, blinked.
  - You understand. Not just that place. Not just that time.
  Egrosi from a Martian future came to Yucatan at various times on Earth, but not all stayed—and why should they? They had enough knowledge to travel to the Virgin Mary, worshiped by their ancestors. And they did. Anatolia, Mesopotamia, Egypt, the Indus Valley, China, of course...
  "We weren't the root cause," the Egrosi shrugged. "You rose up on your own. We merely brought you our style. Perhaps we accelerated the cultural march. Not intentionally, not everywhere, and to varying degrees. Mostly at the exit from Neon-go."
  Well, well... Mesoamerican cultures bore a suspicious resemblance to the Egrosi civilization. Numerous similarities exist—for example, the vigesimal numeral system here and there, or the "dagger-like" architectural features, which are much less common elsewhere on Earth. The Mayans and Aztecs, like the Egrosi, preferred sharper proportions rather than the "golden ratio." For both, this was a consequence of warlike solar cults that demanded enormous numbers of sacrifices.
  "So," Heenaroo noted. "We—what we are now—were born of Wrath. And we brought Wrath to you."
  ...All the peoples of Mesoamerica, especially the Aztecs, believed that if the gods were not fed with sacrifices, the universe would be disrupted and catastrophe would ensue. In their view, the mechanism of the universe constantly required blood lubrication. And so thousands of victims offered their hearts to the victorious Sun at the teocalli. Something similar, as the Cromlech now knew, had happened in ancient times on Mars.
  "A creature flayed alive, similar to Egrossimoion, who gave his skin to the Day of Wrath..." the Martian confirmed.
  The cromlech shuddered, remembering the custom of Mesoamerican priests and rulers to dance in the bloody skin of their latest victim...
  Evgeniy felt sick - in his new body it felt different than in his human one, but the feeling was just as disgusting.
  "When did you give up on sacrifices?" he asked.
  "Why did you decide?" Egrosi asked indifferently.
  And truly, why? These creatures, since ancient times, have torn out the hearts of countless of their kind, feeding them to the Adelinaams. Why should they abandon this after the Day of Wrath destroyed their great empire?
  The Cromlech read of the first post-apocalyptic eras beneath the planet's surface, when brutal wars raged incessantly, and only a pitiful handful of survivors remained. Back then, the waters of the Grottoes darkened with blood—not only from those killed in battle, but also from victims sacrificed in the despair that had already become a cultural archetype.
  Later, things became less gloomy, but the archetypes never go away...
  Heenaroo watched silently as the earthling digested the information, then finally intervened.
  “They still sacrifice agriya,” he noted.
  Evgeny didn't know that these cute little amphibians, strikingly similar to the pointy-eared foxes that many Egrosi kept as pets, were actually sacrificed. He felt nauseous again.
  “Adelinaam loves agri,” the sarcasm in Egrosi’s words was clearly felt.
  The supreme god's home planet was associated with one of the two Martian satellites, which people would much later call Phobos—quickly darting across the sky, changing phases with each revolution, that is, three times a day. Small, nimble, agile... The cromlech knew that its monumental image existed on the surface—in the capital of the fallen empire on the shores of the Great Northern Ocean, now a cold plain battered by terrible hurricanes. It was said that the ruins of Adelin-viiri, the City of the Sun, still towered there, the colossal, half-ruined face of the emperor who united Mars looking sadly up at the cruel skies. The cromlech hoped to someday see it.
  "The Egrosi will hold on to this until they leave this world," Heenaroo spoke again. "Despite everything. The differences in their faiths are irrelevant. They will perform ceremonies, perform rituals, and observe the six hundred and sixty-six commandments of Fire. They will pray to the One, even though they do not see Him in the free sky. And they will always feed Him."
  "But why?" Cromlech finally understood what had been causing him this sense of illogicality all this time. "The Day of Wrath still happened... Why hasn't your faith changed?"
  “Their faith has not changed,” Heenaroo said, “because they waited.”
  Kromlekh noted and immediately pushed aside in his mind the change in his interlocutor’s speech of the pronoun from “we” to “they”.
  - What?
  — What we were waiting for.
  Heenaroo somehow imperceptibly rose from the sofa and now loomed impressively over the lying Cromlech.
  "The Egrosi were born from the silt and, like you, crawled onto land for millions of years. But you settled there permanently, and they kept the water for themselves. This saved them, but it also slowed them down. Their mindless ancestors, their intelligent ancestors, and today's—they always knew they had somewhere to retreat. That's why everything here moves so slowly. It took you three million years, from the first chipped stone to a state. For them, it took tens of millions. But, unlike Earth, Egrossimoyon became one. The Egrosi fed Adelinaam, looking down on them from the cosmic void, with the hearts of their victims, moistening his face with their blood. They knew that while this was happening, the world would go on as before. When the Troublemaker called for something different, they killed him and continued to wait..."
  - What?
  “The day of wrath, of course,” Egrosi fell silent again, leaving Evgeny to look at him in amazement.
  - But why?
  The question was helpless.
  "I don't know," Egrosi seemed to fall, becoming smaller, though he remained upright. "Perhaps the essence of this faith is the sweetness of patience in anticipation of death? A ceremony of slowing down the inevitable. But no matter. The day of wrath has come, the promise fulfilled."
  — A promise?
  — Yes, there were prophecies. Many. Many on Earth, I understand, are awaiting the Savior?
  “Yes,” Kromlech answered tensely, trying to piece together the new information.
  "So, there you have it: he's been here before. He came from the heavenly void on the Day of Wrath," Heenaroo concluded. "Egrosi has nothing more to look forward to. Only to die."
  “It looks like some kind of suicide cult,” flashed through Cromlech’s mind.
  On Earth, something similar existed in Japan. And also... among the Mayans, who equated suicide with sacrifice or even heroism.
  Evgeny suddenly saw clearly what he seemed to have completely forgotten - the moment of his transition, death before rebirth.
  And the terrifying sensation of a noose tightening around the neck.
  "Ish-Tab greets you, warrior!"
  Really?..
  "Here they call her the Mother of Silence, Taiishaish," Heenaroo said. "An egrosi passerby. She went to you, returned, then... disembodied."
  Kromlech had encountered this term, but he still hadn't fully grasped its meaning. It signified the end of existence—not death. It seemed to have something to do with the idea of the fate of the soul, something the Egrosi didn't really have in a developed form.
  "She's not here, but she's also here. She's everywhere and can appear. But she's nowhere," Heenaroo explained, not entirely clearly. "The Grizii praise her. They think it's the face of the Virgin Mary. Some here think so, too."
  The Griisi are the inhabitants of Griisiya, a large eastern island on the surface that once rivaled the Empire. A civilization of cunning merchants and brutal pirates with distinctive aesthetics, a detailed military code, and a ritual suicide ceremony. After the Day of Wrath, Griisiya, recently defeated and annexed by the Empire, became nothing more than a high plateau on a rocky plain, where the ruins of four-sided pyramids still tower—a symbol of the island nation, in contrast to the pentagons of the Solar Empire. Millions of years later, earthlings would call this area Elysium. The Egrosi, descendants of the inhabitants of Griisiya, have maintained a grudge against the Imperials in the Grots, which has resulted in bloody clashes to this day.
  "How similar this all is to Earth!" Evgeny cried bitterly in his soul. "And what, besides a thirst for death, have the Egrosi given us?!"
  Heenaroo played with his tongue ironically.
  "They didn't give you anything," he countered. "They just survived as best they could and got used to it. They didn't choose to be there; they were brought there. You can take the Egrosi out of Egrossimoion..."
  “...But Egrossimoyon from egrosi is impossible,” Evgeny concluded sadly.
  "Don't be sad, Eiromonje," Heenaroo's tongue flickered quickly through his mouth again. "These are communicating vessels... They are yours, you are theirs, and the end result is equal. Perhaps death came from the Virgin? Or are you not enchanted by it? Both humans and Egrosi—they are mysterious and terrifying. Like this entire incomprehensible world."
  Kromlech had heard something like this before. In any case, he had no answer to that—his interlocutor was right. The death drive didn't originate on Mars, or Earth, for that matter. Where?
  — In ancient times, the Egrosi thought that Ezoevel was completely separate, inaccessible, and therefore beautiful. But then Neon-goo opened up, and they realized that it was the same thing there. Just different. That Ezoevel and Egrossimoion were one, albeit on opposite sides of the world.
  Each Mayan astronomical god had its counterpart in another world. It appeared when its star or planet "died," reaching the horizon, and existed until its reappearance on the opposite side...
  "The tonal and the nagual," Kromlech suddenly remembered. "And the doubles..."
  - Exactly so, Don Eugenio. We are all someone's double.
  Heenaroo's gill slits expelled water noisily—a laugh. Cromlech looked at him in bewilderment and horror, but the egrosi suddenly vanished. He simply dissolved into the water, which for a few moments was denser and darker in the spot where he had just been, and then returned to its normal state.
  - Good-bye, Good-bye!
  Kromlech felt someone else's touch and opened his eyes. The servant of the Grottoes of Knowledge was tactfully but insistently tapping his shoulder with the tip of his tail.
  “It pains me to interrupt your thoughts, but our grottoes are sailing to their nightly rest,” he said.
  Blagoy looked around in bewilderment.
  "You know... Heenaroo?" he sent a thought-form to the servant.
  “My vision doesn’t remember anything like that,” he replied.
  "Was I sleeping? Yes, I was. But it wasn't just a dream," thought the Good One, and, politely spreading his arms before the servant, he headed for his abode. He wanted to eat shellfish with moss paste, play with his agri Assia, admiring her graceful, cat-like movements in the clear water of a cozy cave. And he really wanted to reflect on many important things.
   24
  
  Ilona Linkova. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 7, 1980 (12.18.7.2.14, and 8 Hish, and 17 Shul)
  She woke up from the cold, and a terrible pain immediately exploded inside her. Ilona groaned, but at the same time, without opening her eyes, she began to feel her current place in this world.
  She remembered Kromlekh firing at the people who had burst in—they had apparently blown the doors off with a targeted explosion. The entire barn was filled with pungent clouds of smoke, and the attackers were wearing respirators. Ilona didn't see if Evgeny had hit her; it seemed one of the attackers had fallen. She, however, didn't have time to fire—she merely raised her revolver and immediately passed out.
  Now she was definitely not in a barn, but outside. Moreover, it was filled with a bitterly cold wind—at this time of year in Canaria, it's only in the mountains that it gets so chilly.
  In the mountains?.. The girl opened her eyes and the starry sky fell upon her. The wind brushed her face like a rough, unkind palm. Somewhere nearby, someone was speaking loudly but indistinctly in Nahua.
  Her head ached terribly—from the gas, of course—and her body ached. It looked like she'd been hit a few times after passing out. Ilona glanced down at herself. She was stripped bare, and all the magical vests and their menacing weapons were now in the hands of her captors.
  And she was also tied up.
  Despite the gravity of the situation, Agent Laska felt almost a sense of pride: after all, she'd managed to do something before fainting. Thank God, she hadn't gaped wide while she lay unconscious...
  A blade of the moon appeared from behind a gathering cloud, shining sharply and icily. "C—death," popped into Ilona's head, but she immediately forgot it as the deathly light revealed horror. She saw that her body was thickly covered in blue paint. She hadn't felt the tightness of her skin before because her muscles were so stiff.
  She knew very well what blue paint on the naked body of a tied man meant in Aztlan.
  Seeing that she had come to, the man standing next to her roughly lifted her to her feet and shook her. Resistance was futile, and it was much easier to look around on her feet. So Ilona stood still.
  The heated, sometimes choking speech in Nahua, which in the first seconds sounded somewhere on the edge of her consciousness, began to reach her.
  "...and the great god Huitzilopochtli turned away from his people when they stopped giving him the precious eagle fruit of the cactus. He, the god, is no longer able to fight the darkness, for he is hungry and weakened. The great Quetzalcoatl, Tlaloc, and Mixcoatl, who led us from the true Chicomoztoc at the dawn of time, have also turned away from us. That is why our people suffered a shameful defeat at the hands of the white men in the great war. But if we wish to take revenge on them and defeat them, we must feed our gods once again, quench their thirst for the sun with the steaming drink. And we will do this, disregarding all the prohibitions with which the servants of the white men have bound our people."
  Ilona turned her head slightly. Yes, she'd correctly identified the voice—Chimalpopoca, the Smoking Shield, a teteuctin of the Grand Aztlan intelligence service, roughly equivalent to a lieutenant colonel. Malinalco's likely station chief was here, in Chicomoztoc. And she'd been wondering why he'd come to meet with Cromlech. Not to provoke, but to coordinate the operation.
  An operation to kidnap and then murder a famous Russian writer.
  And not just murder, but sacrifice...
  Ilona knew where they were. It was the summit of the Great Teocalli, a platform opposite the temple. In the center stood a squat stone pillar—an altar for the sacred rite of feeding the gods with human flesh and blood.
  From below, the occasional cries of the last strollers could still be heard, but most of the townspeople and tourists had already gone to bed, and those who were still wandering the streets, of course, did not see what was happening at the top of the pyramid.
  Down below, it was probably still warm, even stuffy, but here a piercing wind blew. The naked girl was chilled to the bone, but she paid no attention—the horror of the scene revealed in the light of the portable lanterns made her forget such trifles.
  ...And Chimalpopoca, it turns out, is also a tlamacatzque—a priest, at least with the right to offer sacrifices to the gods. This is not uncommon in the Aztlan army, especially since priesthood is usually hereditary. The Aztlan scout was now dressed in the traditional attire of an aristocrat: a red tilmatli cloak with a white stripe, signifying exceptional military service, and beneath it a xicolli tunic. His priestly rank was evidenced by his freshly shaved head—only a lock of hair remained on the crown. His headband was adorned with bright feathers.
  His men sported the ancient armor of jaguar warriors: long-sleeved shirts and tight-fitting ankle-length pants, painted to resemble jaguar skin. On their heads perched beautiful, but clearly uncomfortable, helmets shaped like the heads of those same beasts, their jaws wide open. All their clothing was also heavily decorated with multicolored feathers, sparkling in the moonlight and fluttering in the night breeze.
  The spectacle was fabulously beautiful and insanely scary.
  A group of jaguars, led by a ranting resident priest, stood at the other end of the platform, quite a distance from Ilona. The girl was guarded by just one warrior—apparently, the Aztlans had decided that she was unarmed, naked, and securely bound, so there was no point in increased security. Stupid sexists...
  She'd been making micro-movements with her wrists, getting the stagnant blood flowing, ever since she'd woken up. Now, with every second, her bound hands ached and hurt more, but they were moving much better. And—most importantly—she was beginning to feel the rope, albeit very slowly, stretching and the knots loosening.
  "Gods, our gods!" cried Chimalpopoca. "Accept the precious fruit that our vanquished enemy gives you!"
  Two jaguars appeared from behind the temple. They were dragging a man. Ilona shuddered—it could only be...
  But it wasn't Cromlech. Dangling limply between two burly warriors was a naked, blue-painted young man Ilona didn't recognize. He was clearly dazed and had little idea where he was. Although... No, he probably did.
  “Please, don’t do it, let me go!”* the girl heard his groan.
  Who is this?..
  He understood everything, but he was powerless to fight because of the tranquilizers they'd pumped into him. He could only feebly try to drag his feet along the rough slab. The jaguars didn't even notice his pitiful efforts—they dragged him to the altar and forcefully slammed him onto the post, his back against it, as if slamming him. One held his victim by the legs, another by the shoulders, and yet another jumped up and grabbed him tightly by the arms. His body arched, his chest thrust up toward the night sky.
  “Mummy, help!” the prisoner screamed wildly.
  Mummy... Englishman?
  Ilona knew, of course, that despite the outwardly friendly relations, royal intelligence was hard at work in both Aztlans. The Aztlans also heavily infiltrated the British Isles with agents, but in the unofficial professional rankings of global intelligence agencies, MI6 was clearly ahead, which caused great irritation in Malinalco. Perhaps the guy was working for MI6 and had been captured. Or maybe they just thought he was a British spy... It didn't matter anymore.
  — Mummy, help!!!
  The scream turned into a death rattle as Chimalpopoca, approaching the crucified victim, hacked and stabbed the boy in the ribs with the leaf-shaped blade of a ritual knife. Such knives—in miniature versions—made of flint, jade, and obsidian, with elegant bone handles shaped like gods—filled all the souvenir shops in Chicomoztoc. Tourists who eagerly bought them thought they were now just souvenirs...
  The priest drew his knife, widening the cut, and, lifting a rib with his other hand, inserted it into the gaping wound, from which blood was gushing. His hand rummaged through the victim's entrails, searching for the pulsating heart. The body convulsed wildly, so violently that four burly jaguars could barely hold it down. But they gripped the limbs tightly, rhythmically howling something ritualistic.
  Finally, the priest grabbed the heart and began to rip it out with twisting movements. The Englishman no longer groaned and barely struggled. The moonlight illuminated his face with merciless clarity, and Ilona, frozen in horror, thought she saw bewilderment frozen in his bulging eyes.
  A lump of blood was torn out of the wound with a disgusting wet sound.
  “Metztli the god,” called Chimalpopoca, raising his still contracting and bloody-sweet organ to the moon, “take the divine food and give it to Huitzilopochtli, Quetzalcoatl, Tlaloc, Mixcoatl and the rest of your fellow gods!”
  Despite the horror of the situation, Ilona noted a deviation from the often-described ritual: the priest offered a sacrifice to the moon god, and through him, to everyone else. Of course, since such deeds are now impossible to perform in the light of day...
  The victim went limp, and the jaguars released her—there was no point in holding her any longer. The priest approached the temple wall and began to generously smear blood on the terrifying faces of the gods on the bas-reliefs.
  Ilona had had enough of this exotica. The rope had loosened enough; it seemed she could now free one hand. Her guard devoured the officiating priest with his eyes. It was time.
  She had already started moving, but had to stop abruptly. First, an approaching rumble was heard from above. Chimalpopoca tore himself away from his macabre task and looked anxiously at the sky.
  Secondly, the jaguars brought out a second victim from around the corner of the temple. And this time it was the Cromlech.
  
  * Please, don't, leave me alone! (Eng.)
  ** Mom, save me! (English)
  
   Ilona Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Krasnoyarsk. January 15, 2030.
  "Galka, leave me alone!" Ilona's irritation with her sister grew. "Believe what you want, just don't drag me into your obscurantism!"
  Usually, she'd only smile condescendingly at Galina's stories of pilgrimages to holy places, distant monasteries, miraculous icons, and clairvoyant priests. But this time, she couldn't stand it. She was in dire straits, the danger was very real. And her sister was pestering her with her religious nonsense. Verunya, just think...
  "What do you believe in?" Galina asked calmly.
  In appearance, she was very similar to her sister—clear gray eyes, sharp cheekbones, a stubborn nose, a beautiful, neat figure. Perhaps not as vibrant as Ilona, certainly less impetuous, more silent and introspective. And she now looked older, despite being the younger. Galina hadn't rushed from her hometown to the capital; she'd lived here her entire life, working in her husband's small but prosperous firm. After his death, she liquidated it—there should have been more than enough for her own living and gifts for her grown and scattered children—and immersed herself entirely in the measured and tranquil world of Byzantine chants, the reflections on golden vestments, long services, candles mysteriously glowing in the dim light, and a fragrant haze.
  The sisters always knew they were each other's last line of defense in this life. But they rarely spoke. And when they did meet or talk on the phone, the topic of religion rarely came up. Ilona was even surprised that Galya had been so persistent in bringing it up since she'd barged in unannounced from the train station and told her wild and disturbing story.
  "I believe I was cornered," Ilona said angrily, vaping.
  Galina did not approve of this, but she was condescending.
  “And who?” she asked.
  Ilona waved her hand vaguely.
  "The secret services... And these... some kind of sorcerers. How should I know!" she snapped.
  "So, you believe in sorcerers?" Galya clarified.
  “How should I know?” Ilona repeated, but in a lower tone.
  She truly didn't know or understand; she was confused. Of course, in her life, Ilona had often encountered extraordinary things that defied trivial explanations. Take the Cromlech, for instance, with its prophetic powers and healing. She had even observed Native American diableros in action. And, as EVK used to say, magic is a particularly contentious topic for anthropologists. There's always the danger that the phenomenon being studied will captivate and enthrall the researcher—there were countless examples of this. Ilona acknowledged the existence of paranormal phenomena. Much of what the ancients had grasped empirically and intuitively, she believed, is not included in our system of knowledge as lacking a scientific explanation. But just as ignorance of the laws of gravity and anatomy won't save a person from injury from a fall, so too will navigating the space of ancient civilizations by touch always present dangerous traps. At the same time, she was confident that sooner or later all these facts would find a completely rational explanation.
  However, what had happened to her in recent months didn't fit into this comforting pattern. It seemed the trap she had fallen into was truly terrifying.
  "If you're running from sorcerers, it means you believe in them," Galina concluded. "Then why don't you want to meet with a priest who understands these matters much more than you do?"
  "How can he help me?" Ilona flared up again. "He'll pray and all my problems will disappear?"
  "He'll pray, of course," the sister nodded. "And he'll tell me something useful."
  She took a sip of tea. Ilona remained silent.
  "You need the help of a specialist," Galina continued, setting down her cup. "And who's an expert in these things? I'm not talking about intelligence, of course; that'll have to be dealt with separately."
  "How should I know who the specialist is?" Ilona waved her hand irritably. "Some kind of magician, probably... What nonsense!"
  "Well, I suppose for you, a priest or a magician is all the same," Galya remarked. "Ilonka," her voice wavered, and it became clear that she was genuinely very worried, "you know I love you and I wouldn't advise you to do anything bad."
  Ilona merely waved silently, extinguished her vape, and went to bed. But her sleep was terrible—as it had been for the past few months. Once again, terrifying, surreal visions descended upon her, in which the Cromlech constantly appeared—sometimes as a huge reptile, sometimes as a stone but living statue, half its face a grinning skull. Once again, gigantic, otherworldly waves of unimaginable colors washed over her, and once again, cosmic vortices swept her into the infinity of nothingness. In which, nevertheless, something existed...
  When she regained consciousness in the real world, it was very early morning—darkness stretched beyond the bedroom windows. Ilona had no idea how much sleep she'd managed, but a disgusting, nagging anxiety wouldn't let her lie in bed any longer. She got up, carefully dressed, and quietly walked outside.
  Public transportation, thank God, was already running. Ilona hopped on a minibus—it looked like they'd never build a metro in this city—and rode for a long time, hunched over in her seat by the thickly frosted window, her nose buried in the collar of her jacket.
  She jumped out at the first stop she came to, with no idea where she was. Siberian January's rough paws gripped her face, and she hurried through the doors of a café, fortunately located nearby. She asked for a large cup of hot chocolate and spent a few minutes simply warming her hands on it. Then she looked out the window. Across the street, in the frosty haze, behind red brick walls, loomed a massive, fawn-colored church with green domes. Ilona realized with surprise that this was the very monastery with the clairvoyant priest to which Galina had sent her.
  She mentally shrugged, marveling at the psychological quirk—or perhaps even the sheer randomness—that had brought her here, and she wanted to sip her cocoa. But she froze, cup in hand.
  When she entered the café, it was empty—at such an early hour. Even the barmaid had gone somewhere after serving Ilona. Just then, she could have sworn she was sitting there alone. But that wasn't true—there was a woman sitting at the table across from her. And Ilona knew her.
  Carol Tash, a sorceress, a seer, a bearer of a terrible ancient magical essence, looked at her with a predatory smile on her high-cheekboned face!
  The café entrance was opposite Ilona, and no one could have entered unnoticed. But Carol was clearly there, not as a ghost, but apparently in full physical form. She wore a white jacket with a fox-trimmed hood, which she hadn't pulled back, and her hands lay calmly on the table. And she remained silent, simply sitting there, her smile growing more and more sarcastically.
  Ilona was overcome with a searing panic, but somehow she pulled herself together. It seemed to her that the room had suddenly darkened, that it wasn't even a café anymore, but... a barn. A familiar barn with a straw-covered floor. Of the café's furnishings, only two tables with two women remained. And they looked at each other—one with horror, the other with cold lust.
  Ilona realized with despair that she couldn't get up and run, couldn't even move; only her eyes moved. She saw a strange moon shining through the window, illuminating the rough, cracked walls, and the figure of a woman across the room.
  "I'm sleeping! I'm sleeping!" Ilona repeated desperately to herself. "Oh, God! I'm sleeping!"
  Without taking her eyes off her, Carol rose from the table, as if floating above it.
  And then Ilona seemed to wake up.
  The barn had disappeared, the witch had disappeared, she was still alone in the cafe at a table with a cup of cold chocolate.
  Jumping up at once, buttoning her jacket as she went, she ran outside. Ignoring the traffic light, narrowly avoiding being run over by several cars, she crossed the street and ran through the monastery gate in the red brick wall.
  "I want to see Father Feodor," she almost screamed at the elderly nun she met in the courtyard. "Where is Father Feodor?!"
  The woman in black looked at her carefully, nodded and pointed to the doors of the extension.
  “Wait,” she said to Ilona and disappeared.
  There were benches in the long hallway with icons on the walls, but Ilona couldn't sit—she would either thrash about, or freeze in place, staring into space. Complete chaos reigned within her. It seemed as if her ties to the real world were being torn one by one, hanging in powerless tatters. And some very flimsy suspenders held her above an abyss where a whirlpool of eternal madness roared.
  “I am Father Fyodor,” came a quiet, slightly trembling, but deep voice.
  Ilona raised her head sharply.
  Before her stood a short, elderly priest in a cassock. His face bespoke Mongoloid ancestry. His narrow eyes, beneath a high, wrinkled forehead and thick eyebrows, glittered piercingly.
  "You asked for me?" he repeated. "I am Father Fyodor Kopenkin."
   25
  
  Eugene Kromlekh. Eastern Aztlan, Chicomoztoc, Canaria (Fortuna Islands). August 7, 1980 (12.18.7.2.14, and 8 Hish, and 17 Shul)
  He definitely shot one in the barn. Maybe two, before the gas took effect and Yevgeny slipped back into oblivion. It was little consolation, now that he'd woken up and realized he was being dragged upwards, naked and bound in ropes.
  It was cold and scary. And a mad hatred boiled within him, which the horror did not diminish.
  He was being dragged along by two Aztlans in ceremonial jaguar costumes. Just as Delgado had said—though Cromlech couldn't say for sure whether their meeting was real or a dream he'd imagined.
  However, the information received in that dream seemed to be of quite high quality, and that was the main thing now.
  He quickly realized where they were—climbing the steps of the Great Teocalli. Three days ago, the Cromlechs had come here on a tour. Now it was very dark, and the view was limited. Evgeny only realized that there were a few people around him.
  Once they reached the platform near the temple, the situation became clearer—particularly because the kidnappers had turned on their flashlights, apparently no longer fearing being seen from below. In the dim light, Evgeny could see that there were two other captives there besides himself.
  Ilona...
  She clearly hadn't yet come to. She was dragged to the edge of the platform and thrown down like a sack. The moonlight gleamed across her blue-painted naked body.
  Evgeny remembered that she woke up later than him, pulled out a revolver, but didn't have time to shoot the attackers. However, it seemed she managed to do something else...
  He didn't finish his thought—he was distracted by another prisoner, who was being carried, or rather dragged by the shoulders, behind them all. Evgeny didn't recognize him—a young man, also naked and blue.
  Kromlech was well aware of what was about to happen—he'd seen something similar during the war, when he'd been seconded by the General Staff to the allied Comancheria. There had been no large-scale ground combat in Atlantis during the entire war—only air raids and clashes at sea. But on the borders of Russian Atlantis and Comancheria with the Great Aztlan, there were constant skirmishes, ambushes, and raids, with sabotage and reconnaissance groups operating on both sides. Yevgeny commanded one of them, and during a raid behind enemy lines in the Sonoran Desert, he observed through binoculars Aztlan soldiers sacrificing Chiricahua warriors. Then he understood why the Comanches, Apaches, and other locals were committing such horrific acts against Aztlan captives...
  After all, the concept of "precious food for the gods" was firmly ingrained in the Aztlan consciousness like an archetype, and it erupted in extreme situations. For them, the gears of the universe had to be constantly lubricated with fresh blood—otherwise, life would cease.
  “Mummy, help...” groaned the guy the jaguars placed next to him.
  An Englishman... Well, yes, their games with Aztlan periodically lead to such an ending. Another sacrifice in the name of Her Majesty. Poor fellow.
  “Hold on,” he said to the guy, but he didn’t seem to understand—he was apparently drugged.
  Jaguar roughly pushed Cromlech to silence him.
  "Warriors of Aztlan," a voice came from around the corner of the square temple where the captives were held. "Today we will mend our ways to the gods, and they will grant us the aid they have denied us until now because of our own laziness and cowardice."
  Evgeny recognized the voice—the same unpleasant guy who had attacked him at the cultural center. Clearly, he had to be involved in all of this. The only news was that he seemed to be the one in charge of this whole damned mess.
  And it was probably he who ordered Nika's death!..
  Towards the end of his heated speech, the speaker almost burst into tears:
  — Gods, our gods! Accept the precious fruit that our vanquished enemy gives you!
  Two jaguars dragged the young Englishman around the corner. He could barely move his legs and quietly pleaded:
  — Please, don't do it, let me go...
  Evgeny turned to the temple wall. Medieval images of deities, carved before Eastern Aztlan adopted the faith of the One, were paradoxically mixed with various advertising materials for the tourists who constantly flocked here during the day—the Aztlans were always known for their practicality. Directly in front of Evgeny hung a poster for the second film in the space saga "Star Wars," now triumphantly sweeping the world's screens. The poster depicted Itztotec, the dark servant of the galactic Pope, severing the hand of the young Jedi Coyotl with a macuahuitl of light, who later turned out to be his son. Evgeny and Monica had seen this film back home in Svyatoalexandrovsk. The spectacle was beautiful and captivating, but, as with all Aztlan cinema, something bloody and dark lurked beneath.
  The victim's wild scream from around the corner was interrupted by a squelching sound, and the priest's cry rang out:
  - Metztli-god, accept the divine food!
  Fear and hatred literally twisted Evgeny, so much so that he almost threw up.
  Now they'll tear him apart, and then they'll take on Ilona. Women's hearts weren't offered to the major gods; her death will probably be dedicated to someone minor, like the god of commerce, Cochimetl, and her body will be ritually cannibalized.
  It's time.
  At the Cromlech, the ropes were quickly cut, but then they were immediately grabbed tightly from both sides, depriving him of any opportunity to resist, and dragged to the altar.
  “Lord, receive my soul,” Kromlech cried out mentally, having not been to church for many years.
  The spectacle on the platform was fantastically beautiful and equally monstrous. The Englishman's corpse lay against the wall. The altar was surrounded by feathered jaguars howling ritual chants. The high priest "fed" the terrifying faces of stone deities with the blood of a torn-out heart.
  However, something seemed to have gone wrong—the priest suddenly froze and raised his face to the night sky. Evgeny heard a growing rumble. The warriors dragging him also turned toward the sound.
  Kromlech met Ilona's gaze, standing guarded by a single jaguar at the edge of the platform. Her gaze was desperate and furious. He must have been looking at the same thing right now. The light from the lanterns glinted off her blue skin. She was tense and ready to move. She looked like an archaic dancer's statue—ancient and youthful, beginning a complex exotic dance.
  And so it was: her hands were suddenly free of the ropes, and while her guard stared upward, the girl spat something into her hand. The guard turned around in alarm, but it was too late—there was a sharp snap, the jaguar clutched his face, wheezed, and fell. Evgeny had been right in the barn—Ilona had managed to hide something useful in her mouth.
  But he had no time to admire the girl—he, too, was getting down to work. The one holding him on the right loosened his grip slightly. With a sharp movement, Kromlekh wrenched himself free and struck him hard in the shin with the edge of his bare foot, simultaneously thrusting his body sharply into the guard holding him on the left. The attack was successful—the jaguar's leg crunched, and he fell with a groan. Lucky.
  The second one reflexively grabbed Yevgeny, but the latter managed to land a right to the temple, and the warrior loosened his grip slightly. Kromlech attempted a left-armed spear strike under the guard's jaw—this time, not very successfully, as the guard dodged. They grappled, fell, and rolled.
  Out of the corner of his eye, Evgeny saw Ilona leap magnificently into the darkness beyond the edge of the platform. He could only hope that she would be okay. As for him, completely exhausted, it was a difficult time—the warrior was healthy and prepared. The instantaneous explosion of action completely devastated Kromlekh, and he could only thrash about, preventing his opponent from mounting him.
  However, the disposition on the teocalli has already changed radically.
  "Everyone freeze! Police!" a thunderous voice boomed from the sky.
  A helicopter hovered over the temple, from where a powerful searchlight beam struck, mercilessly illuminating the entire mise-en-scène.
  “Drop your weapons, raise your hands and do not resist,” a steely voice announced through the loudspeaker.
  The order was reinforced by the barrel of a heavy machine gun sticking out of the helicopter.
  Evgeny's opponent froze. He took advantage of this to roll into the shadows near the temple wall.
  Fighters in black uniforms and round helmets with transparent visors appeared on the platform. The Jaguars dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Directly in front of the prostrate K stood a priest, his bloodied hands also raised to the heavens. A stone knife lay beside him, and Evgeny realized his work wasn't finished for the day.
  He reached for the knife and made several snake-like movements toward the priest. He gathered all his strength and, with a furious cry, reared up, grabbing him by the lock of hair with one hand, throwing his head back, and with the other, drawing the blade forcefully across his throat.
  The sharp obsidian, used only once, easily slit his larynx, and air escaped with a soft hiss. The priest wheezed and fell backwards, blood gurgling as it left his body.
  - Stand!
  Kromlekh was blinded by the tactical flashlights from the compact Atlatl-8 assault rifles aimed at him. He dropped his knife and raised his hands. He didn't care anymore.
  "Don't shoot!" came a melodic voice, but it still rang with steel.
  A short, thin figure in the same black uniform as theirs emerged from behind the police officers and pulled back the visor of his helmet.
  “Kromlech-tzin, you are a prisoner of the Huey-tlatoani of the Great Aztlan,” said the young anthropologist Lenmena from Iroquoisia, looking straight into Evgeny’s face.
  
  *Hold on
  
   Kukulkan-Quetzalcoatl. Lucayan Islands, Guanahani. 9.8.12.5.15, and 7 Men , And 18 Sak (October 13, 605)
  Kukulkan collapsed heavily onto the warm sand of the beach, his legs stretched out wearily. The years were certainly taking their toll, but they themselves never ceased to amaze him. He'd expected that, having regained human form, he would simply die of old age. That creature... the Egrosi... had lived in the depths of Mars for at least fifty Earth years. More or less, he couldn't calculate precisely due to the desynchronization. Mars itself had become something that had never existed for him, some memory of a long and grandiose dream... But in any case, if you add up his years before he passed through the Membrane, it would amount to far more than the lifespan allotted to any human. Logically, he should have been reborn on Earth as a decrepit old man and soon died.
  But there seems to be no logic in the Membrane. Or perhaps it's something entirely different, incomprehensible. Kukulkan the Man came into the Mayan world at the same biological age at which the Egrosi Blagoy left Egrossimoyon—at the peak of life's prime. There was no explanation for this, just a fact—quite inspiring, it must be said.
  And already on Earth, he lived a remarkably long life for a man of that time—and a long life in general—while still retaining sufficient strength in his body. Although his back and legs sometimes fail him when he's doing physical work. Like now, outfitting the ship for a long voyage.
  Kukulkan rummaged through a nearby woven herb bag, pulling out fire-making equipment and a cigar rolled from tobacco leaves. After several attempts, he ignited the tinder using flint and a piece of pyrite (one of his first innovations—otherwise, he would now be stuck trying to make fire by friction).
  A coastal breeze carried fragrant smoke westward, into the glittering ocean's infinity. Kukulkan watched the light wisps disappear into the azure distance. Somewhere out there, thousands of kilometers away, in Europe, the Great Migration was ending. The Roman Empire had vanished into oblivion, at the height of the Merovingian Empire's power. The time of the Huns had passed, and no one had yet heard of the fearsome drakkars from the north, while the Arabs were universally regarded as peaceful traders. In Mecca, Muhammad had recently married Khadija, was traveling with caravans to Syria, and would begin preaching his revelation only in five years.
  Further east, Byzantium is battling with Iran over the Great Silk Road. To the north, the Turkic Khaganate split in two two years ago, and to the south, in China, another great empire—the Tang—will be painfully born in thirteen years. There—if all goes as planned—ships from Mayapan should eventually arrive, linking the two halves of humanity separated for millennia. Topiltzin has already begun his journey there, while Kukulkan himself is heading in the opposite direction. The kingdom of the Vandals and Alans in North Africa has long since collapsed; these lands now belong to Constantinople, but beyond the metropolis, complete anarchy reigns. However, the Romans still hold fast the strait between the Pillars of Hercules.
  "I'll probably swim there," thought Kukulkan, absentmindedly taking a drag on his cigarette. "If I swim that far, of course."
  In any case, he had ample skill for it. Even without taking into account that he had once belonged to the hydraulic civilization of Egrossimoion, already on Earth, in human form, he never missed an opportunity to make a sea voyage, eventually becoming a competent sailor. Just as he had once been a warrior, a ruler, a diplomat... But the upcoming voyage was unpredictable. He didn't know what would happen to him—just as Columbus, who was to land on this very beach 887 years later, didn't know when he set out.
  But he won't land. And even if he does, he'll encounter a completely different reality than the world of the scientist Evgeny Kromlekh, who, over the four decades he spent here, did enough to turn history around.
  But is this right?..
  It doesn't matter. He lived this life the way he lived it and accomplished what he accomplished.
  Kukulkan unconsciously ran his hand over his chest, covered in tattoos and scars. Amidst their intricate interweaving, the cross-shaped symbol was barely noticeable. He'd ordered it tattooed there long ago, and only later realized that the symbol—sacred to the Mayans as well—was located where the cross his mother had once placed around Zhenya Kromlekh's neck should have hung. He never took it off, not knowing why.
  And he didn't know why he remembered it now. Perhaps it was because he associated it with the shape of the mast of his boat, ready for a long—very long—voyage. The mast and sail were also his work. However, at the time, he had merely suggested the idea to a boatbuilder from the merchant caste—the ppolom. And he himself had implemented it—he began to build up the sides of the huge dugout canoes here, fitting them with a cross-shaped mast with a sail of woven reed or cotton. Then, naturally, the merchants constantly sailing the seas on trade affairs introduced other improvements. And he continued to suggest them—for example, the design of the outrigger, unknown here. So now Kukulkan had at his disposal a perfectly decent vessel, which—with incredible luck, of course—was quite capable of carrying him across the ocean. In fact, in his former world, enthusiasts made the same journey on even more frail vessels...
  "But why did I have to go there?.."
  It's unlikely he was homesick—Eugene Cromlech's homeland was in another world, one that doesn't yet exist and, likely, never will. Kukulkan's homeland, however, is in the Yucatan jungle.
  He tossed aside his finished cigar, stood up, and approached the boat. Everything seemed in order: the cargo beneath the thatched roof in the center of the large pirogue was rationally distributed to maintain stability, and securely protected from the sea and sky by the decking. Mostly food, of course: corn in the form of dry cakes, roasted grains, and flour, tapioca, beans, dried vegetables, root vegetables, and fruits, peanuts, and charqui meat, which the islanders are excellent at curing. Gourd vessels held fresh water, sunflower oil, and honey.
  It should be enough - if it catches the Antilles Current, doesn't get caught in a calm, and a storm doesn't sink it or throw it into who knows where...
  There's also fishing gear. And a lot of other things. Weapons, for example—now bronze, a good axe, spears, and daggers. They'll come in handy at the other end of the journey. And the gold and silver will definitely come in handy there. He has a fair amount of that, though he could have had more, but it wouldn't do to overcrowd the boat at the expense of provisions.
  In short, the local cacique of the Lucayyan people who lived on these islands equipped him conscientiously. Of course he wouldn't: the well-being of his tribe depended on the Ppolom trading post, for whom Guanahani was an important staging post on trade routes. They delivered goods, exchanged them for local goods, and, if necessary, helped repel the ferocious cannibals—the Caribs—sailing from the south. The Ppolom themselves paid divine homage to this mysterious lord, Kukulkan, who was about to sail into the unknown.
  Here they are, by the way.
  Cromlech's musings were interrupted by an approaching exotic cacophony—the mournful roar of conch shells, the rustling of maraca, the creaking of a güira, and the resounding beat of drums. A colorful procession was moving from the direction of a trading post built right on the shore, surrounded by a high palisade. At the head of the procession was the cacique. He usually lived in a fortified village inland, but for this occasion he had arrived with his retinue at the trading post. Unlike his short and frail-looking tribesmen, he was quite imposing in build. A tall tiara, skillfully crafted from feathers, added to his height. He wore the traditional long, patterned cotton skirt of the islands, but draped over his torso was a cloak, richly embellished with multicolored feathers, clearly imported from the land of the Maya. His numerous gold, jade, and jasper ornaments were also of continental origin. A long spear with a bronze tip, covered in jaguar skin and adorned with tassels and feathers, emphasized his high status. In Mayapan, no one would have allowed such a petty ruler to use a jaguar skin, but on the islands, the managers of trading posts usually turned a blind eye—they weren't imperial officials, after all, and business would tolerate such an infraction.
  Next to the cacique walked the ah ppolom yok, the merchant leader, who wielded far more power here than the local chieftain, although formally Guanahani, like the other islands of the Taino Sea, was not part of the empire. The merchant was much shorter than the cacique, plump, and dressed richly and well, but somewhat conservatively—no one in the capital dressed that way anymore. However, Kukulkan hadn't been to his capital for several years...
  “And now Mayapan is unlikely to annex the islands,” thought Cromlech, looking at the approaching procession of half-naked islanders dancing and singing out of tune to barbaric music.
  Many in the empire believed it was at the height of its power, but Cromlech, who knew the history of the future, understood that decline was near. The causes of collapse two hundred years later were not undone by the deeds of Kukulkan. Water shortages, always a problem in Mayan areas, would become catastrophic with a shift in climate to a more arid climate. Forests have already been nearly cleared, the land is depleted and will soon be unable to feed the entire incoming population. Famine will spark popular uprisings and palace coups, cities will be destroyed, and blood will soak the earth. Then savage peoples will arrive and enslave those who remain. Only a few enclaves will remain of the once-mighty empire.
  But he also knew that, over time, the savages would embrace Mayan culture and themselves become high Toltecs—refined philosophers, astronomers, and magicians. New forests would rise on the redeposited soils, among which the cities of the successor civilization would begin to grow.
  In the world of Cromlech, this renaissance was also led by Kukulkan, who was not him. Perhaps he will appear in this world too—some leader who has adopted the glorious name. At least Cromlech took care to ensure it was not forgotten, and that his descendants were honored and worshiped. He left four sons—"the colors of his ray's thorn"—in Chichen Itza, and the eldest rules Mayapan with dignity, continuing his work. And in the City of the Gods, where Kukulkan-Quetzalcoatl lived for the last four years—decaying, having lost its power and significance, but still sacred—he fathered two boys, who are accorded the same honors there as he.
  So, when the still-savage Mexica-Aztecs arrive from the north, the old dynasty of Quetzalcoatl will remain sacred in their eyes. Perhaps they will even invite one of his descendants to rule them. Although Kukulkan could only hope for this, he could no longer influence it. He had done what he could; the forces of nature, the makers of history, must take their course.
  But was it necessary to do this?..
  He hadn't quite made up his mind, but he left with a light heart. Only the memories of his abandoned children and dead wives brought a piercing pain to his soul, a forgivable human weakness. He also missed Aska, who had undergone the Membrane for Cats in his third year in Teotihuacan. He had had yaguranudis before and after her, but only her death had caused such profound sadness.
  His memories were interrupted by a sudden silence—all the musicians stopped playing at once. The procession came to a halt.
  Kukulkan rose to his full, enormous height for this place and time and gazed silently upon the newcomers. At a sign from the cacique, they all fell facedown on the sand. The cromlech gazed at their bare, brown backs, glistening with sweat. Such a sight was nothing new to him.
  The kasik and the merchant chief crawled toward him. When they were about a meter away, they stopped.
  “Stand up,” Kukulkan ordered quietly.
  Both nobles rose, but still kept their faces downcast. The others remained in the same position.
  “Great Kukulkan,” the cacique began.
  His dark face, streaked with red and heavily caked with sand, was contorted with tension—he was communicating with God at a key moment in the existence of this world.
  - Let me not dishonor my ancestors, let me not dishonor you by speaking words in your presence!
  “Speak,” Cromlech allowed.
  "Now my god appears to us as a mortal," the chieftain began in a chant. "O Kukulkan, we see you clearly! Like a beautiful water cypress, my god launches into the waters, into their glittering surface. The beautiful green Feathered Serpent sails away from us across the divine waters on a serpentine canoe—eastward into the center of the sea. I see the noblest of them beating drums amidst fragrant flowers. Farewell, my god, intoxicated by the breath of flowers, I will forever remain on the shore."
  The calm was high—the boy was clearly well-read, perhaps even trained by the priests on the continent at one of the temple schools. Barbarian youths were often accepted there—Kukulkan had insisted on this when he was in power, as part of his strategy for consolidating the state. Of course, persuading the priests to make such changes was difficult, but he had learned to succeed. At a high price, though...
  "Do we live with our roots in the soil?" he answered the cacique in the same tone. "No, we are not on earth forever—only for a little while. Be it jade, it will crumble; be it gold, it will melt away; be it quetzal feathers, they will flay. Now the time has come for the Feathered Serpent to reach the center of the sea, to the gods, his brothers, and to abandon his people."
  The cromlech paused for a few seconds, allowing the words to sink into the listeners' memories. Then he continued:
  "But I, Kukulkan, suffer! What is true reality? Will these words live tomorrow? Do people really exist? What will continue to exist? We live here, we abide here, but we are alone, oh, my friends!"
  Out of the corner of his eye, Kukulkan caught the sharp glint of the ah ppolom yok's gaze and became wary. The world he was leaving was still capable of striking back. And there were still plenty of those willing to deliver it. The merchant elder—if that was what he was—took an almost imperceptible, gliding step toward the Cromlech, and it prepared to repel the surprise attack. But none came.
  “Goodbye, Don Eugenio,” the merchant whispered, grinning at Eugenius with his jade-encrusted teeth, filed down like a crocodile’s.
  His voice was ingratiating, and the words hung between them as if written in cigar smoke.
  The spell passed just as suddenly. The merchant still stood at a distance next to the cacique, both heads bowed respectfully.
  Without another word, Kukulkan pointed at the boat and turned away. The islanders collectively pushed the vessel into the water, and it bobbed on the surf, as if warming up for the next stage of an endless journey.
  The god-king entered the water, stepped aboard, and began raising the sail. Catching the wind, the boat began to move briskly away from the beach. The islanders watched the spectacle with awe.
  "Our king has entered the water, the great god is leaving!" the cacique cried out in a thunderous voice, and his men responded with cries and howls, and then began to play their instruments again.
  In the ensuing chaos of sounds, no one heard how akh ppolom yok quietly said:
  — And may the Feathered Serpent return!
   26
  
   Part three
   Stopping the world
  
  Archpriest Fyodor Kopenkin. Russia. Krasnoyarsk. January 15, 2030.
  The nun found Father Feodor in the sacristy. Seeing her expression, the priest realized she had come to report yet another possessed person. Not every priest is capable of exorcising such people. In fact, such people are vanishingly rare in the Church, especially now. Outside the Church, however, there are plenty, for a modest fee and with a complete guarantee of the ultimate destruction of anyone who resorts to such spiritual services.
  This is what Father Fyodor thought, and he had good reason for it. He only learned the Latin word "exorcism" in seminary, but he had intuitively understood its meaning since his youth—from that difficult period when Fyodor Kopenkin was struck by the shamanic illness. It had plagued the eldest son of his family for generations. He would become strange, suffer, speak incomprehensible words, and flee alone into the forest or tundra for long periods. This meant the spirits desired him and were making a shaman for themselves—dismembering his soul and reassembling it as they saw fit.
  Although, starting with his grandfather, Nikolai, something went wrong. He recovered from an illness and took up the drum while his father, the most famous shaman in their family, shared the priest's name, was still alive. But then, during his wanderings in the spirit world, great-grandfather Fyodor suffered a catastrophe he told no one about. All that was clear was that he had suffered spiritual trauma incompatible with life and soon retreated into the taiga, where he died alone.
  But everyone knows that no shaman dies without reason, especially one as powerful as Fedka Kopenkin, who once even witnessed the descent of the Fire Serpent Dyabdar from the heavens. Indeed, he began appearing to his son—both during his shamanic rituals and in his dreams. He kept trying to explain things to him, but the son simply couldn't understand. However, after his father's death, Kolka Kopenkin became a completely useless and weak shaman—he couldn't cure a person of illness, find something stolen, or cast a spell on a bad person. The spirits laughed at him, and so did the people.
  Kolka became silent and sullen, drank constantly, only occasionally shouting in a wild voice:
  - Ami, ami*, what do you want from me?!
  Ami, it seemed, finally explained it to him. In any case, Kolka gave up vodka and also went off into the taiga alone. Returning a month later—thin, dirty, wounded, but with a strangely calm gaze—he gathered his shamanic attire, spirit figurines, and family drum in the tent in the courtyard of his father's house, and set it all ablaze. The residents of Uchami gasped at such audacity. They later said that the spirits danced in the fire, and when the power objects burned up, they flew off into the sky like fiery snakes.
  They expected Kolka to die in agony very soon—the spirits don't forgive sacrilege. But nothing happened to this Kopenkin. He walked around sober, in clean clothes, and just grinned.
  "Perfume doesn't tell me what to do anymore," he said. "Dad protects me."
  And then he disappeared from the village altogether. "The bad guy has finally vanished," people thought, but they were wrong again. Kolka returned a couple of months later, and it turned out he'd been all the way to Yeniseisk, but he hadn't told anyone why. The Ucham residents soon realized that Kolka was still quietly performing his shamanic rituals. Well, not really—if someone asked him to cure them of an illness or some other misfortune, he'd do it, out of habit. But he no longer beat his drum or danced in front of the fire. He'd simply place his hands on the sick person, mutter something, draw a sign in the air above them—and that was it.
  Some savvy fellow villagers noticed he was making the sign of the cross over the sick man, and the cross was hanging around his neck. It was astonishing: some old men were still alive who had been baptized by Russian priests before the Bolsheviks. But afterward—no way, the "Soviet" authorities wouldn't allow it. Someone remembered that Kolya's father, Fedka, had also been baptized, but he hadn't particularly mentioned it in life.
  The chief arrived from Tura and it turned out that Kolka had indeed been baptized in Yeniseisk, in the recently reopened church there.
  Father Fyodor often tried to put himself in the shoes of the then rector of that church—the exiled Father Evgeny, who was suddenly visited by a young Tungus from God knows where in the tundra and demanded to be baptized. He told a wild story about how he was a shaman, but his dead father, also a shaman, came to him and demanded that his son be baptized. For that, according to my grandfather, was exactly what happened.
  The priest finally baptized the Tungus. Apparently, he sensed something stronger than both the occult odor and the threat of another prison term for his excessive religious initiative. The chief from Tura never asked Nikolai what kind of enemy had troubled the reindeer herder's fragile soul and plunged him into the obscurantist embrace of the clergy. After hearing the story of his deceased father appearing, the chief merely spat and left, not forgetting to take with him a bundle of reindeer pelts.
  Nikolai was left alone, but his eldest son, Ivan, proved more difficult. Nikolai took him to Tura, where Vanka successfully completed his seven-year schooling. Soon after his return to Uchami, the boy began showing signs of shamanic illness. Nikolai then accompanied him to Yeniseisk. It took a long time for news to reach the village that Kolka Kopenkin had died and been buried there. Much later, the villagers learned with astonishment that Vanka had been sent all the way to Leningrad, where he trained as a priest.
  He never returned to Uchami, serving in Yeniseisk, then Krasnoyarsk, and married a Russian woman. He had a son, named Fyodor after his grandfather, who also graduated from the Leningrad Seminary. The Soviet regime was no longer so harsh on the Church, and soon disappeared altogether.
  But young Fyodor, too, was overcome by this same cursed illness—the spirits of the taiga and tundra tore his soul to pieces, demanding that he perform shamanic rituals for them. The boy lay in bed for days, unresponsive to his surroundings, while the spirits pulled him into their mad world. Perhaps he would have succumbed to them, if not for the constant appearance of an old man in these visions, at whose sight the spirits began to writhe, thin out, and vanish. The old man would say:
  - Hold on, Fedya, Christ will help you.
  And the boy knew that this old man was his great-grandfather Fyodor.
  When the illness had long since passed, and Fyodor was no longer a boy, had heard and read much, and had become a priest, he realized that, like his father, he had the ability to "rebuke demons." This ability was dangerous; the Church didn't like to talk about it, much less advertise it. But rumors of the priest exorcising the possessed spread, and the unfortunate ones constantly flocked to Father Fyodor. The monastery recognized such people and immediately sent them to him.
  And when he saw the face of the middle-aged woman who burst into the monastery, he immediately understood that he had work ahead of him—difficult and dangerous. He wasn't surprised—for several days he had felt a gathering darkness around him, like a thundercloud swollen with a storm. Today, this oppressive feeling had become completely unbearable.
  It's coming soon.
  “I am Father Fyodor Kopenkin,” he said, led the woman into the semi-dark narthex, sat her down on a bench, sat down next to her and began to listen.
  But the more the elderly, learned woman with the non-Christian name Ilona spoke, the more Father Fyodor realized that this was a test not only for her, but for him as well. Perhaps the most important one in his life. He vividly recalled one of his most vivid visions during his shamanic illness—he had completely forgotten about it, but now he remembered it.
  It was Great-Grandfather Fyodor again—he stood before him like an ice statue, even his long hair frozen. Only his eyes moved, but his lips didn't move at all, though Fedya clearly heard what his great-grandfather was saying.
  The boy understood little at the time—something about fierce, powerful shamans from foreign lands, wanderings between worlds that living people, even shamans, have no idea about, evil gods who aren't gods, some kind of terrifying, soul-devouring bird of prey that isn't a bird at all. And about a Russian boy named Evgeny who absolutely must be saved. Because he's stuck between these most dangerous worlds.
  Since then, as I said, Father Feodor has read a lot and spoken with people, including pagans—both old and new. He's heard the names "nagual," "seers," and "the eagle." As for unclean spirits, he doesn't need to read about them—they were, so to speak, his family affair, God forgive me.
  And Ilona's story, clearly haunted by these spirits, somehow logically connected all these fragments into a coherent picture in his mind. Father Fyodor didn't like it at all, but what can you do—that's life...
  "I see," he sighed when the woman fell silent, looking at him helplessly with frightened eyes. "You're in trouble, Mother..."
  "What?!" Ilona asked hysterically.
  "That's it," the priest replied. "Witchcraft. All sorts of madness."
  "How do you know?" Despite her fear, there was skepticism in her voice.
  Well, of course - educated, an anthropologist, etc., in much knowledge there is much sadness...
  "Because I know demons. And my ancestors knew them—they were shamans. And my great-grandfather knew your Zhenya."
  Ilona Maksimovna's gaze grew surprised, but the distrust remained. Yes, Yevgeny had told her something about his long-ago encounter in the Evenki wilderness. But who knows where this priest could have heard about it—especially since he himself, it seemed, was from those parts.
  “Excuse me, Father,” she asked, “but how does this... uh... devilry fit in with your rank?”
  Exactly, educated. I'll have to cut it...
  - Mother, do you know a good joke about a shaman and an anthropologist?
  Ilona shook her head.
  "I heard it at the Theological Academy. It's strange they didn't tell it at your university. A shaman and an ethnographer from Paris are sitting in a tent, in the tundra. The scholar thinks: 'Does this Siberian savage really believe that the spirit world contains the same Lower Tunguska, the same tundra, and the same reindeer?' And the shaman thinks: 'How can I explain to this Parisian savage that the sacred and profane topos differ substantially, not existentially? Okay, let's simplify: I'll tell him that the spirit world contains the same Lower Tunguska, the same tundra, and the same reindeer.'"
  Ilona laughed, a little nervously; it was clear she'd been slightly embarrassed by the joke. The dense priest suddenly turned out to be not so dense.
  And Father Theodore continued:
  "You're right, of course, all this doesn't really fit in with church teaching and practice, and some bishops view it suspiciously—it's demonic, no matter how you look at it. But my father and grandfather grew up in this pagan swamp—not to mention my great-grandfather and other ancestors. The fact is, a northern person depends on nature so strongly that they can't help but spiritualize it. If, for example, a river feeds you, you can't help but believe it's alive. Overall, this world is harmonious, constant, and stable: summer gives way to winter, the river provides water and fish, the reindeer eat lichen, and people eat fish and reindeer. And, of course, thousands upon thousands of spirits oversee all of this. At this point, we Christians would be indignant: "Paganism!" But we must understand: fire, forest, and river actually give life to these people. And all life comes from God.
  "And perfumes are from God?" Ilona looked at him sharply.
  Feeling herself in a familiar situation, she pushed the oppressive fear to the edge of her consciousness.
  "Yes," Father Feodor nodded, "Christians also believe in spirits—that is, angels. We even try to communicate with them—through prayer, candles before icons, and so on. But we're not really 'lighting a candle to the Heavenly Powers.' And my fellow tribesmen should understand that when they throw food into the Tunguska, they're not 'feeding the river.' The difference between a Guardian Angel and a spirit living in a river is, in principle, small—both were created by the same God and praise the same God. So Christianity doesn't need to compete with indigenous cultures. On the contrary, it would be good to document and preserve them—but to elevate them to a new level."
  "Where to?" Ilona asked.
  “To where the Final Cause of existence is,” the priest answered.
  “I don’t understand,” the woman admitted.
  "To God," Father Feodor explained. "The thing is, the 'harmonious' world of traditional man is not truly harmonious or stable. Somewhere they've caught all the fish, somewhere they've drilled gas wells, poisoned the water, somewhere else there's some other disaster... Nothing can return to normal; the 'heavenly' world is locked away. And Christianity honestly says: we will never return to the primordial world. But to God—please! He became man specifically for this purpose. So, God be with it, paganism! We simply need to make Christianity the foundation of traditional man's worldview. That's why Innocent, the saint of Siberia and America, wasn't concerned about the dual faith of his new converts. He knew, after all, that they had turned their souls inside out for Christ's sake... Like my grandfather. Like my great-grandfather..."
  "So, you're saying that all... spirits are angels, or something?" Ilona asked, still skeptical.
  "By no means all—many are demons. That is, angels, of course, but those who separated from God at the beginning of time."
  "Ah... Tash?" Ilona asked in a hoarse voice.
  She was very scared to pronounce this name.
  "Yes, this is a powerful demon," the priest said, his expression darkening. "I've never had to deal with anything like him. It's difficult, very difficult... But God is stronger."
  The woman's expression clearly showed that she didn't quite believe it. The priest wasn't surprised.
  "I understand," he nodded, "you encountered her, were horrified, and think there's nothing more powerful in the world. But believe me, their power is limited. In any case, here, in God's temple, you're certainly safe—she has no access here."
  "So what, should I sit here for the rest of my life?" Ilona snapped hostilely.
  "That's up to you to decide. After all, you came here yourself. That's what free will is."
  The woman remained silent.
  "Listen to this," the priest spoke again. "Just sit here for a while and think. The Liturgy will begin soon. You were baptized, weren't you? Yes, I see you were. What was your baptismal name?"
  “Elena,” Ilona’s voice seemed to be filled with surprise that it turned out she had another name, and she hadn’t remembered it.
  "Well then," the priest concluded. "If you decide to confess, come to the right aisle at the beginning of the liturgy; I'll be there."
  Ilona looked at him with bewilderment.
  — Isn’t what I just told you a confession?
  “No,” the priest shook his head. “In confession, you confess to God what you’ve done wrong. But now you simply asked me—a man like you—for help. But it will be difficult for me to provide it to you if you don’t repent of your sins. Well, it’s just... that’s how it works, that’s all. And one more thing—if you go to the service, please wear this.”
  He thrust something into her hand and left.
  Ilona looked at her palm. There was a small silver cross on a simple cord.
  
   *Father (Evenk.)
  
  Eugene Cromlech. Great Aztlan, Tenochtitlan. August 11, 1980 (12.18.7.2.18, and 12 Etznab, and 1 Yakshin)
  Kromlech didn't know how long he'd spent in this place—a pitch-dark, empty cell with a soft-padded floor and ceiling. Many hours... Hardly days—he wasn't hungry, even though he'd been fed for the last time on the plane over the Atlantic.
  In Chicomoztoc, he and his captors descended from the pyramid and were apparently knocked unconscious by a drug injection into his neck. He awoke in a small plane, chained to a seat in the back. Several Aztlans sat in the front.
  Apparently, the plane was heading to Meshika—Lenmena had said he was a prisoner of the emperor himself. Actually, a Mohican woman from Iroquois working for the Way-Tlatoani was something new and strange. But anything can happen in this world... Cromlech had other, more pressing matters to ponder.
  What was happening seemed absurd, as if he'd stumbled into the world of one of Harms's novels. Why the hell had Aztlan organized this entire operation, the enormity of which was only now being revealed? This wasn't just a simple provocation against an undesirable foreign writer that had gotten out of hand. It's terrifying to imagine the level of pressure Tenochtitlan had subjected Beladvalid to, so that the very cautious government of Eastern Aztlan, after its defeat, would have allowed its ally to commit such outrages on its territory.
  Kromlech's entire body ached—he was too old for war, and had grown heavy from years of a quiet, measured life as a writer. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the torment that tore at his soul whenever he remembered Nika.
  He tried not to think about her, but then his thoughts switched to Ilona, and he realized that worrying about this girl who had suddenly burst into his life was tormenting him no less than the pain of losing his wife.
  No one spoke to him during the flight, only a couple of times when grim, square-looking guards in identical black suits took him to the restroom, and once they fed him—he couldn't even tell what it was, but he ate it all. They also gave him water several times. The last glass had apparently been spiked again—he had no memory of landing or how he ended up in this cell.
  A shaft of light burst into the darkness—someone had opened the door. Blinded, Kromlech couldn't see who it was. He was lifted up and led down long, featureless corridors. Of course, his guards here too were silent Aztlans. He was still naked, covered in peeling blue paint and dirt. They led him into a luxurious bathroom, removed his handcuffs, and pushed him into the shower.
  “Wash, shave,” muttered one of the guards.
  While he was tidying himself up, they stood and watched.
  They gave him new clothes—pants tied at the ankles and a loose-fitting white shirt. For some reason, they also made him wear a red scarf, but left him barefoot. They didn't put the handcuffs back on.
  Then they took him into another room, sat him down at a table, and brought him food. Only then did Evgeny realize how hungry he was. The food was delicious. Thick corn soup with turkey, pork tacos, and fish seasoned with chili and lemon instantly disappeared into his stomach. He washed it all down with pulque.
  He had barely finished his meal when the guard impatiently shook his shoulder. They were now walking through corridors just as long and tangled, but much more richly decorated. Soft, colorful carpets lay beneath their feet, and paintings and ancient Atlantean weapons hung on the walls. The aroma of incense hung in the air.
  The guards—who, by the way, were also barefoot—led him into a spacious semicircular room with a high vaulted ceiling, softly lit by hidden lights, and placed him in the center. They stood silently behind him. It seemed they were prepared to stand there forever.
  For the past hour, Kromlech had been trying to relax and prepare himself for anything. It seemed he had finally succeeded.
  A heavy curtain fluttered against the opposite wall, and two men appeared in the hall. The first was a rather tall Aztlan, dressed in discreet but obviously expensive clothing. His broad face was impassive. Cromlech barely saw the second man—as if something kept interfering with his ability to take him in at a glance. Evgeny only realized that he was shorter than the first. The man was wrapped in a long cloak, stylized like a traditional tilmatli. His face was hidden by a skull-shaped mask.
  He stopped at the wall, and with a second energetic step approached the Cromlech and his guards.
  “You can leave us,” he told them commandingly in Nahua.
  The guards bowed low and left.
  “I welcome you to my palace, Kromlekh-tsin,” the man looked into Eugene’s face with a sharp gaze from his impenetrable black almond-shaped eyes.
  “Hello, Your Majesty,” Cromlech bowed.
   He, of course, recognized Montezuma VII, the Hueytlatoani of the Great Aztlan.
  “I should have known you’d figure it out right away,” he chuckled.
  The cromlech remained silent.
  The Lord of Aztlan looked at him seriously.
  "Kromlech-tsin, I assure you that I had nothing to do with the tragic death of your wife. It was a terrible blow for me. You... would have been invited to me by another means, and without Monica-tsin. However, these fanatics intervened."
  “The Jaguars with their officer...” said Cromlech, looking ahead.
  The Emperor nodded.
  — Yes, their crime is my fault. I am ashamed. Please accept my apologies. And condolences.
  Coming from a Way-taltoani, such words addressed to a captive meant a great deal. Moreover, Cromlech understood that the emperor didn't have complete control over the jaguars. So he bowed his head silently, so that the monarch would think he accepted the apology.
  "Your Majesty, why do you need me?" he asked.
  Montezuma perked up and motioned for Eugene to sit on a richly draped bench, or ikpalli, standing against the wall . After a moment's hesitation, Cromlech sat cross-legged next to the emperor, marveling at the honor he was being shown, thus breaking all the ceremonies of the Tenochtitlan court.
  The man in the skull mask remained hidden in the shadows.
  "Perhaps you, like many, consider me a tyrant, but believe me, I had extremely compelling reasons for desiring a personal meeting with you," the emperor began. "Malinalco had to work very long and meticulously to arrange your passage to at least the territory of Eastern Aztlan."
  Kromlech chuckled to himself: yes, one must assume Aztlan intelligence was going all out. Perhaps the Chilam affair wasn't just a coincidence.
  God, what a fool he was!..
  "I'll get straight to the point," the Huey-Tlatoani said, as if he'd penetrated the Cromlech's state. "In your novel... a very talented novel, congratulations... well, it describes a weapon of incredible power that the great powers of the world you've created intend to use against each other."
  "Yes," Kromlech nodded, terribly surprised, "nuclear weapons. But that, as you said, is my invention... science fiction..."
  "Not exactly," Montezuma said after a brief pause. "Work on creating such a weapon was indeed underway."
  — Yes, in Prussia before the war. And during it. But they ended in failure...
  Ueytlatoani remained silent, and the terrible truth reached Cromlech.
  “There was no failure,” he exhaled, almost jumping up, but he controlled himself and remained in place.
  The Emperor nodded.
  — After Prussia's defeat, some of the scientists working on the "Father of the Gods" project fled to Eastern Aztlan, and from there to us, while others were captured by your army...
  "And the work continued in secret..." Evgeny said hoarsely. "How far did they go?"
  “Allow me to leave your question unanswered for now,” Montezuma said with exquisite politeness, and Cromlech realized that the Great Aztlan had weapons.
  It was obvious that Evgeny had become the possessor of a terrible secret, and no one would let him out of here alive. For the first time in a long time, he felt truly afraid, but not for himself...
  Suddenly, a vivid memory struck him. About a year and a half ago, in Warsaw, where he was presenting the novel, he had a long conversation with a Polish professor... What was his name? Yes, Yagielski. They were chatting over glasses of Pan Tadeusz about "The Man with the Cat," the Pole admiringly asking intelligent questions, and constantly, unnoticeably, leading him to the topic of nuclear weapons. How long ago these games had been going on around him, and he hadn't even noticed... Staff Captain Kromlech, you're a civilian!
  Way-tlatoani watched him closely.
  "I see this is a shock to you," he finally remarked. "Although you described almost exactly—allowing for the realities of your novel—the process of creating this weapon. Something you couldn't have known. Kromlekh-tsin, allow me to tell you: you are a very unusual person... But let's leave that for now. I have one more question for you."
  Evgeny put his emotions aside for a moment and tensed up again.
  “Several years ago, our archaeological expedition worked in Egypt,” Montezuma continued.
  Even though Egypt had gained independence some thirty years earlier, the Aztlans still felt at home there.
  — Excavations were carried out on the site of an abandoned ancient Christian monastery in Sinai.
  Cromlech realized that they were talking about the monastery of St. Catherine.
  "A lot was discovered there, but we're currently interested in the skeleton found in the monastery cemetery. Can you imagine what a cemetery in an ancient Christian monastery is like?"
  “Monks are not left in their graves forever,” Evgeny did not understand what Montezuma was getting at, but he was interested.
  "Yes," the emperor nodded, "I've also looked into this matter. There were seven graves in the monastery cemetery. A deceased monk would be placed in one of them for several years, then removed and the bones placed in a common ossuary. But..."
  Montezuma paused, perhaps recalling all the circumstances of this matter, which was apparently very important for him.
  "This expedition," he continued, "accidentally discovered another grave—the eighth. It was clearly used only once and was set apart from the others. In fact, it wasn't even in the cemetery, but behind its wall. It was as if the monks either considered this man unworthy of resting with the rest of the brethren, or simply didn't know what to do with his body..."
  "And who was there?" asked Cromlech.
  — A monk. Remains of a cassock and a rosary were found. And something else...
  The monarch fell silent again, and Cromlech realized with surprise that he was hesitating to say anything.
  "There was a case," Montezuma said, speaking much more quickly after a pause. "With parchment... A manuscript, quite badly damaged. But we read it—as best we could."
  Oddly enough, Evgeny now felt unwilling to hear the rest. Instead—since the Way-tlatoani had fallen silent again—he asked:
  — What is the burial time?
  "The first half of the seventh century according to the Christian calendar," the emperor seemed relieved to be able to drag out the continuation. "The monastery's heyday..."
  “And the rise of the Maya...” Cromlech added for some reason.
  Montezuma looked up in surprise.
  - It's strange that you said that.
  - Why?
  — Because the contents of the manuscript presumably also concern the ancient Mayans.
  The cromlech grew cold - again, it is unclear why.
  “And also... obviously, your name is mentioned there,” the emperor finished quietly.
  
  Translation of the manuscript found during the excavation of the ruins of the Monastery of Saint Catherine by the expedition of the Imperial Museum of Human Cultures in Tenochtitlan on November 9, 1977 (12.18.4.6.12, and 7 Eb, and 10 Sak)
  There was an elder named Eugene, and he came to Mount Sinai. No one knows where he came from or what his life in the world was like. He looked neither Roman, nor Frank, nor Moorish, nor Persian, though he spoke their languages. He was a great and God-pleasing man, fasting for weeks at a time, so much so that some considered him incorporeal. He labored day and night according to Christ's commandment, accepting no reward for it.
  When he had lived in the monastery for many years, the brethren, seeing his piety and zeal, and that God had granted him the gift of healing, wanted to make him abbot. But the elder answered them:
  "Leave me, fathers, to mourn my sins. I am not at all one to care for the souls of others."
  It so happened that the elder Evgeny fell ill... [ manuscript damage ] and suffered greatly. But the more the illness overcame him, the more he rejoiced, saying:
  — The more the outer man suffers, the more the inner man grows in strength.
  "Why do you want to suffer?" asked monk John, one of the former dragon warriors.
  “I am such a great sinner,” he answered, “as there has never been since Adam until this day...”
  “It is true, Father, that we are all sinners,” John objected. “Who is without sin, except God alone?”
  "Believe me, brother," the elder replied, "neither in Scripture, nor in Tradition, nor among men have I found a sinner like me, nor the sin I have committed. If you think I am slandering myself, listen to my sin and pray for me."
  “So tell me the whole truth about yourself,” the monk asked, and the elder began to tell.
  — My name is Petrinokiklo [ Stone Circle ]. I come from future times.
  The monk did not understand the elder, but knowing that God’s miracles are great... [ manuscript damage ]
  — I found myself in an unknown land beyond the Ocean, and they called me there Feroto Fidi [ Feathered Serpent ]. I became the ruler of the pagans living there, who built great cities in the dense forest. But I didn’t get to that land right away, but... [ manuscript damage ] the star Ares... [ Mars? ]
  [ Extensive damage to the manuscript ].
  ...the old man said that he sailed across the Ocean to the east, was exposed to storms and many other dangers, but God protected him and after many days he approached the island of Macar [ Madeira? ].
  There he saw the ship of a Carthaginian merchant sailing across the Sea of Darkness toward the Purple Islands. But God, through a storm, carried it to the island of Macara.
  He took Eugenius on his ship, and since he had a lot of silver and gold with him... [ manuscript damage ] Despite the fact that the merchant was a heretic - a follower of Donatus, he honestly delivered Eugenius with all his property to... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...one day he encountered some Moors who wanted to kill him. Drawing their swords, they rushed at Eugene to deliver the fatal blow... [ manuscript damage ] axe and knocked them to the ground... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...they lost their way and began to wander. Their water ran out, and they were very thirsty... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...from Alexandria he went to Rome, from there to Constantinople, and from there to the lands of the Scythians... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...one of the barbarians caught up with him and was already raising his spear to strike. But Eugene... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...he had a vision of a huge serpent slithering down a mountain. The serpent was so large that its movements resembled a vault, and Eugene passed unharmed beneath this vault. He understood that the devil wanted... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...the Most Holy Theotokos appeared to him and, admonishing him... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...And Abba the hermit Barnabas said to him:
  “Your sin is that you have changed the natural course of events that God intended for this world... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...went into the desert and lived in a cave for many years... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...Having received communion from the hands of the blessed abbot, he glorified God... [ manuscript damage ]
  ...how to fix what has been done... [ damage to the manuscript ]
  — Lord Christ, our God, who for our sake was pleased to become truly incarnate from our Lady the Most Holy Theotokos and Ever-Virgin Mary, show us the truth Yourself!
  Having said this, Elder Eugene departed to another world.
  Monk John was utterly astonished and wondered if what he had heard was a demonic delusion. Approaching the abbot and falling at his feet, he repeated the deceased elder's story.
  The abbot prayed all night, and in the morning he ordered that Elder Eugene be buried behind the wall of the monastery cemetery, away from the graves of the brethren, but that they pray fervently for the deceased, leaving the rest to the will of God.
  I, humble John, myself heard the story of the elder Eugenius, nicknamed Petrinokiklo, and, having written it down, hid it in his grave in order to avoid temptations.
   27
  
  Ilona Linkova. Russian Atlantis, Roslavl. August 11, 1980 (12.18.7.2.18, and 12 Etznab, and 1 Yakshin)
  The administrative center of the Russian Empire's overseas possessions was Novoarkhangelsk in the far north, but Roslavl, which grew out of a small wooden fortress, was surrounded by romantic glory.
  Ilona had never been to the southern capital of Russian Atlantis and now gazed curiously out the window of the car speeding through the streets. Of course, after Moscow and Svyatoalexandrovsk, this city seemed quite compact. But it also possessed many signs of a completely different life from the metropolis, and a unique way of life. It also bore numerous traces of the past war.
  Above the once-wooden center, burned by bombings and still actively being rebuilt, towered the majestic Holy Trinity Cathedral, built in the last century and recently restored after the war. Before it stood a monumental Victory composition, erected several years ago—a Russian soldier, an Iroquois, a Sioux, and a Comanche, pointing bayonets at an enraged dragon rising from the waves, its depiction combining elements of traditional Aztlan and Japanese art. The allies were blessed with the cross by Saint Innocent and Saint Herman. Despite its massiveness and angular brutality, the monument, sculpted by a fashionable Moscow sculptor, was impressive. It seemed to be especially appealing to the native Atlanteans: tourists from all over both continents, even Aztlan, crowded around, snapping photos. Some laid flowers and colorful feathers at the monument - some at the figures of soldiers, some at the Snake...
  To the right, the port rumbled; further from the center, the skyscrapers of a new city glittered on the surrounding hills, its architecture blending Russian and Atlantic motifs. Russian faces were often spotted in the crowd, but even more so were a variety of Atlanteans and Asians. Judging by everything, the religious scene was also quite varied: Ilona spotted numerous Orthodox churches and chapels, a few more Temples of the One, Great Spirit tepees, and Buddhist and Taoist pagodas. She even glimpsed the modernist building of Joseph Dzhugashvili's "Renovationist Church." Such buildings were rare in the Eurasian part of the empire.
  The black Volga pulled up in front of a massive Anasazi-style building.
  “Come out,” Colonel Stolyarov invited Ilona.
  On the way from the airport, where they had arrived on a special flight from Novoarkhangelsk, she recalled that terrible night in Chicomoztoc, when she and Kromlech, naked and painted with sacrificial paint, stood at the top of the teocalli. Ilona again felt the "Kiss of Death" mini-pistol, disguised as lipstick, in her mouth, equipped with a 4.5mm cartridge and a poisoned bullet.
  She saw Cromlech, in the dim light resembling a furious, captive demon. The girl realized that Eugene was unbroken and ready to fight. She did too.
  The sound of a helicopter grew louder overhead, and the jaguars looked up. Ilona freed herself from the now-loosened rope and spat the lipstick into her palm, immediately flipping the safety catch. The guard started to turn toward her, but she was faster—she pointed the tube toward him and pressed the base sharply.
  The soft shot was lost in the roar from the sky. The jaguar, struck in the eye by a bullet, died before it fell. But even before that, Ilona made a desperate leap from her spot over the curb of the upper platform of the teocalli, taking cover there.
  She was afraid to stick her head out, but she heard everything: the sounds of the fight, the cries of "Police!" and the final phrase, spoken in a melodic but very firm female voice: "Cromlech-tzin, you are a prisoner of the Huey-tlatoani of the Great Aztlan." Ilona raised her head slightly and looked into the face of the speaker. Despite the darkness, she recognized the squaw who had questioned Cromlech at the meeting and then spoken to him on the street.
  Following the woman's curt instructions, the policemen (if they were policemen) led the prisoners away from the pyramid and carried away the bodies. To Ilona's surprise, they didn't notice her—apparently, they were in a great hurry. They didn't even see her from the helicopter, which flooded the entire area in front of the temple with light. It, however, quickly flew away. Silence and darkness reigned over the pyramid, slightly diluted by moonlight. Only the cold wind howled angrily.
  Ilona was completely exhausted. Sobbing and groaning from the cold, stepping carefully on her wounded feet, she began to descend. The city below had fallen silent—even its exalted inhabitants were tired and sated with the festivities.
  The girl had to walk across the entire city to the consulate in this horrific state. But right now, that was the least of her worries. What mattered most was Evgeny's fate. And then came the inevitable prospect of eventually reporting to Colonel Stolyarov. Unless, of course, she was killed along the way—which was quite easy to do now.
  However, when two dark figures appeared out of nowhere at the foot of the pyramid, the girl's reflexes kicked in and she attempted the maneuver. However, this pathetic attempt was immediately cut short. Ilona heard a familiar voice:
  - Stand down, Second Lieutenant Linkova!
  The girl threw herself on her boss's chest, sobbing.
  “Nikolai Alekseevich, I’ve failed everything,” she howled, wetting the colonel’s broad chest with tears as he looked at her shoulders and head.
  "Don't cry, girl," he muttered, "you didn't screw anything up. You did great. Everything's fine, everything's as it should be..."
  Now Ilona silently followed the colonel through the labyrinthine corridors of the GRU headquarters building in the south of Russian Atlantis. A deep resentment toward her boss lingered. Yes, she had truly carried out her mission brilliantly—because her failure had been planned from the start by "Glass."
  "We needed Cromlech kidnapped and delivered to Great Aztlan," Stolyarov explained sternly to her in his Moscow office. "The enemy would have been surprised if we hadn't been covering them on the Fortunas. So, having an intern as a cover agent was ideal: that's what we would have done if we hadn't known an operation was being prepared against Cromlech."
  “A female intern is even better,” Ilona thought bitterly.
  "But they wanted to kill us!" she exclaimed, glaring at Stolyarov.
  He became even more gloomy.
  "No one could have imagined that the enemy commander would be so insane that he'd disregard orders and decide to perform a ritual instead of transporting Cromlech to Aztlan. As soon as we learned this, I immediately organized a rescue operation. Believe me, it wasn't easy..."
  “And me?” the girl blurted out.
  "And you, Second Lieutenant, took an oath!" the chief barked. "Girl, that's our job," he added wearily after a pause. "I'm not asking for your forgiveness, but I'm sorry."
  Ilona was silent.
  They walked silently to the bison-hide doors bearing a brass plaque: "General Tamantsev." Ilona gasped. Yevgeny Tamantsev! Since the war, he had been the head of all Russian intelligence in Atlantis. A legendary figure, shrouded in the glory of hundreds of incredible operations. His allies nicknamed him the Hidden Bear for his ferocity and superhuman cunning.
  He certainly seemed that way. He was well into his years—his glossy, raven-colored hair was thickly streaked with gray. But he still towered over his interlocutor like an old sequoia, moving lithely and swiftly, his black eyes sparkling from beneath thick brows on his swarthy, aquiline face.
  “Let me introduce you,” he said quickly.
  His speech was marked by an ineradicable southern Russian accent.
  — Representative of the Allies.
  Ilona turned to the woman who had stood up from the table, and her hand jerked towards her pistol.
  It was she, the same squaw from Chicomoztoc who had captured Eugene!
  But the general's harsh voice made Ilona freeze in place.
  — Lenmena Hingahgok, Junior Sagamore of the Iroquois Confederacy's Intelligence Service.
  
   Blagoy with Ezoeeveli. Egrossimoyon, about ten million Earth years ago
  Dust, sand, rock, rock, rock—and nothing else... Many days had passed since Blagoy and twelve other Egrosi emerged from a deep well on the slope of a great mountain near the equator—one of the four great mountains of the planet. Before that, they had spent several days ascending from the Grottoes, sometimes via a system of elevators, sometimes on their own two feet. Halfway up, they had to don spacesuits made of a lightweight but durable alloy—beyond that lay the thin atmosphere of Egrossimoion, the brutal cold, the deadly low pressure, not a drop of water, and the deadly radiation of the Adelinaam. The Egrosi were far better adapted to these conditions than humans, but even they could only survive on the surface without a spacesuit for a few minutes before dying of suffocation and decompression, not having had a chance to experience the full delights of the harsh radiation.
  Nothing living could survive here for long, save perhaps a few species of particularly resilient microbes. But for the Egrosi—even millions of years after the Day of Wrath—this was still their homeworld, whose dry, dusty skeleton they looked upon with tenderness and pain.
  Floundering in the dry, sand-like snow, they descended the dead, ancient volcano for a long time, constantly seeing the neighboring one to the right—a colossal mountain obscuring the horizon. Then they saw two more, and beyond them, in the distance, loomed the staggering mass of a fourth—the greatest of all. Cromlech had never seen anything like it before, and there were none like it on Earth. Although he wasn't particularly versed in astronomy, he nevertheless knew that there were none like it in the entire solar system.
  This was once a sacred place for all Egrosi, the altar of Egrossimoion, the site of priestly cities and great temples. Since ancient times, prayers to the Adelinas had been offered here, and all emperors made a pilgrimage here before their coronation, praying for a worthy reign and eternal memory. Most of them had already been forgotten... Now the same grim chaos reigned here as on the entire burial planet, with only the crumbling ruins of monasteries and temples protruding here and there, like fragments of teeth in a skull's jaw.
  Mars, to Cromlech's surprise, wasn't red. Or rather, it was, but not only that: there were more than enough reddish-brown-cinnabar hues, but alongside them were yellowish-ochre, purple, lilac, even green and blue rocks, mixed in the most whimsical ways. The bizarre diversity of this world somewhat reconciled the soul with its deadening essence.
  The monotonous path among the rocks seemed endless. Low gravity and strong lower limbs enabled the Egrosi to move very quickly, with powerful, low leaps. But even for them, the descent was a great challenge, and Blagoy, accustomed to the gentle aquatic environment of the Grottoes, suffered terribly, jumping awkwardly, stumbling, and pausing to catch his breath. His companions, however, fared little better—they, too, were emerging under the open skies of their planet for the first time.
  “Hold on, Blagoy-dio,” an encouraging thought came into his mind from one of his companions, a young woman, no more than sixty, Leenmiin.
  Evgeny sent her a silent smile—he liked the girl for her spontaneity, rare among the Egrosi. His fellow pilgrims suffered from this quality only to a very slight degree. Besides, the Hajj did not allow for the slightest frivolity. At least once in their lives—or better yet, several times—every believer in Adelinaam and the blessed Day of Wrath bestowed upon them is obliged to make the arduous pilgrimage from the Grottoes to Adelin-viiri, the ancient capital of the fallen empire, to offer their prayers there in a sad and elaborate ritual.
  Many years had passed since the conversation in the Grottoes of Knowledge with the mysterious Egrosi, whom Kromlech was now inclined to regard as a phantom created by his own psyche to comprehend categories incomprehensible to the human mind. Back then, Evgeny was not yet a full-fledged Egrosi, but much more a human being. It wasn't that the Grottoes rejected him—far from it: these beings seemed oblivious to the fact that he was an alien. He could have lived peacefully here, devoting himself solely to knowledge. But Evgeny wanted to establish himself in this world. So he enlisted in the Grottoes' guard corps and went off to fight the "young Tayishaish"—descendants of the brave and cruel pirates of Griisiya Island.
  As the pilgrims trudged silently along the rocks, images of war arose in Blagoy’s memory.
  ..."Variss!" the commander's sharp warning flashed in his mind.
  Blagoy quickly pulled on his protective mask, pressed himself to the bottom of the grotto, turned off his breathing and tightly squeezed his gills.
  Variss, the toxic substance released by the enemies holed up in the fortification his battle group attacked, will travel primarily along the surface layers of the water. Near the bottom, however, there's a good chance of survival. Above that, there's almost no chance.
  The yellowish-purple, oily tresses of varisse spread slowly but surely. It was a terrifying weapon, banned by the Grot Council many centuries ago, but still periodically used in the fleeting and brutal wars here.
  The main thing was to endure it and not succumb to the insane burning. The skin would eventually recover, but if the poison got into their insides, they would turn into a disgusting jelly. And then—an agonizing death. The Egrosi could hold their breath for a very long time—longer than the variss retained its toxic properties in the water. But it melted their skin, causing such excruciating pain that their gills would reflexively open. Then the poison would enter the body, burning it from the inside.
  Blagoy saw two or three of his comrades already floating lifelessly in the water. Before that, his mind had been tormented by their desperate, agonizing death-blows.
  "Death and light to Adelinaam!" the Good One uttered a half-plea, half-curse, and, springily writhing his powerful tail and helping himself with his webbed hands, he tore through the infected layers toward the enemy positions.
  The pain was blindingly insane, but he somehow managed to separate it from himself and therefore endured.
  The enemies also clung to the bottom to avoid their own poison—the variss could turn anywhere. So no one fired at Blagoy—otherwise, they would have easily killed him at point-blank range. Instead, he began firing point-blank as he slipped into the enemy pillbox. Several dead enemy soldiers broke free from the bottom and began to surface. Others, no longer heeding the danger of burns, rushed at him.
  He managed to sting one in the face beneath his protective visor, lashing out with a long, stiff, fighting tongue. The enemy mentally screamed wildly, weakened, and released his grip. But the second Grizi struck Evgeny in the side with a short trident, breaking his cuirass and inflicting a massive wound, while the third aimed to split his helmet and head open with a broad, half-moon-shaped, handleless axe, held in both hands and slashing downwards.
  Blagoy was losing consciousness when he saw the Egrosi soldiers rushing after him, killing the Grizi. Then came oblivion.
  Blagogo-dio's feat was celebrated with a brief military ceremony. It took him about two years to recover from his terrible wounds...
  But even after he returned to No-Adelin, the underground capital—now a war hero—he didn't feel like a true Egrosi. Inside him, the same Zhenya Kromlekh continued to live—curious, persistent, observant, open to all the wonders of the world. And there was no place for him in this strange world.
  But he had to have come here for a reason, hadn't he? And he had been reading a message from the past to himself, from himself. From the earthly past, from a very specific place and time.
  So he had to return to Earth and continue his journey. If only to find out if all this made any sense, something about which Kromlech had serious doubts...
  As far as he could tell, every Passerby opened a portal to Neon-goo themselves, anywhere. But it was completely unclear how they did it. And the other Egrosi avoided discussing the matter, especially the members of the priest-scholar caste—they politely but firmly made it clear they didn't want to talk about it.
  "If Adelina touches you, you will understand. If she doesn't touch you, no," they said.
  There was only one thing left to do - ask other Passers-by...
  At first, he thought they weren't present on Egrossimoion, but gradually it dawned on him that the term "disembodiment" didn't mean death at all, but rather a transition to some other form of existence. Apparently, the other Egrosi were completely convinced that these beings were alive and active now, and could exist both in the Grottoes and on the surface, especially in the ruins of the ancient capital.
  They weren't treated as gods at all, but simply as powerful figures. They could manifest themselves in the lives of the Grottos, or they could simply lead a parallel existence, uninvolved in the affairs of the Egrosi. Even the Grizi—Eugene spoke with the prisoners—perceived Tayishaish not as a goddess, but as their military leader; some confidently told stories of encounters with her.
  Moreover, it seemed that it was expected of him, the Good One, that sooner or later he too would disembodiment, joining this strange company.
  In any case, the most stories of encounters with these creatures came from pilgrims to Adelin-viiri. So, Evgeny decided, he needed to go there.
  ...Having descended into the foothills, they found transport. Here lay a "resting hollow"—a small oasis for pilgrims, maintained by the Iriassi Order. The Iriasis's work was dangerous and arduous—they supplied these oases with water, oxygen, and supplies, and kept the machines in working order. In return, they lived a luxurious life in the Grottoes, financed by taxes collected for their benefit from the entire underground population. Everyone paid, regardless of their affiliation with warring peoples and groups. And members of the Order were inviolable to all. True, they lived only half as long as other Egrosi—if they didn't perish even earlier from the various horrors of the surface.
  The "Resting Hollow" was an ancient depression left by the impact of a meteorite, small by local standards, surrounded by cliffs on almost all sides. The bottom had been leveled, and living quarters, supply depots, and garages had been dug into it. The latter held vehicles—enormous platforms with capacious cabins, mounted on a kind of caterpillar track. They moved extremely slowly, struggling with the planet's rugged terrain, but they could be loaded with enough food, water, and oxygen for the round-trip journey.
  In addition, they were equipped with something resembling passenger seats—tanks filled with oxygen-enriched water, where exhausted pilgrims could rest for several hours, taking turns recuperating. In short, without these vehicles, no one would have been able to reach the ruins of the ancient capital.
  The rest was sweet but brief, and the group continued onward. The path now lay through a vast canyon system, the remnants of some planetary catastrophe of time immemorial, long before the Day of Wrath. During the humid imperial eras, this was an ocean bay with high, steep shores, deeply indented into the continent. This was the southern border of the empire and the "edge of the world," beyond which stretched the barren lands of the south, inhabited by strange creatures.
  But now this had become a far more convenient route to their goal than the path across the highlands. Among the wildly multicolored walls of the giant rift, rising to skies yellowed by eternal dust, the pace was heavy but steady. And here, in the depths of the canyons, it was slightly warmer and the atmospheric pressure more tolerable for the Egrosi remained. The pilgrims ran in step with the vehicles, sometimes helping them overcome particularly intricate stone traps. Periodically, one of the travelers would climb into a water capsule and sink into a heavy daze. The leaping pace of the Egrosi was steady and unwavering—just as cohorts of steel-clad warriors of the empire marched millions of years ago, conquering ever new territories. An evil wind tried to tear the banners, the tips of thousands of pikes aimed at the sky sparkled under the fiery gaze of Adelinaam, long-range catapults, drawn majestically by extinct giants-driisiss, floated above the army, turning the walls of enemy cities to dust...
  The man living deep within the Seelie's reptilian body cowered in fear, overwhelmed by the enormity of the surrounding landscape. But his companions were also stunned. The journey passed in almost complete silence, only occasionally exchanging mental signals. With each leap, they became increasingly immersed in mystical experiences. This growing exaltation created a palpable aura around the group, in which it was impossible to distinguish each individual being. In this sense, all thirteen became a single entity, performing some act of incredible significance. And the Cromlech was no different—it no longer mattered whether he was Egrosi or human; the path to Adelin-viiri had woven it into its melody.
  Mysticism accompanied the Egrosi's entire life. It wasn't like on Earth—tales of miracles, vague premonitions, vivid flashes of exaltation in individual spiritists. On Egrossimoion, spiritual manifestations were an integral part of social and personal life. Apparently, this was rooted in telepathic communication. At first, Kromlech was astonished by this, but eventually he got used to it and could no longer imagine existence without the soul's frequent penetration beyond the boundaries of this world. And now, joining the meditative aura for him was like adding his voice to the marching song of a troop.
  But this aura was alarmingly harsh, with tones of fear, fury, and rage. A veritable mental anthem of a bygone empire—gleaming under the rays of a merciless sun in the snarling void of the universe, greedy for conquest and bloodshed, fierce with the looming threat of death. Even in ancient times, the Egrosi realized the true scale of the cosmos and themselves in comparison. Therefore, in their archetypal imagination, they felt themselves not the crown of nature and the center of the universe, but insignificant creatures before the terrifying visage of a cosmic giant. Hence the fear and despair, turning into cruelty and indifference, elevated to the dignity of lofty religious principles.
  The cromlech felt uneasy in this prickly egregore, but he was forced to endure the same experiences as his companions. To protect himself, he recalled another aura he had once merged with in the Grottoes, and his soul reached out to it.
  This was during his second year of military service. Another war with the Grizii was going on with varying success. Generally, warfare in the Grottoes was very different from warfare on the surface. Large-scale troop movements and maneuvers were impossible here. Weapons of mass destruction were rarely used, as they could inflict equal damage on both sides. Variss was an exception, as it quickly lost its toxic properties in water.
  So everything boiled down to clashes between small groups of lightly armed warriors, often ending in hand-to-hand combat. There was constant fighting over strongholds, which one side held while the other tried to capture. In one such fortification, Blagoy's unit found itself trapped and cut off from the main Adelin-Egrosi forces.
  The situation was dire—in a few hours, the Grizi would attack with superior force, and all the fortress's defenders would be wiped out. After mass sacrifices in the Grottoes became a thing of the past, prisoners were rarely taken.
  Before the battle, each Egrosi experienced the imminent end of their existence in their own way. Only a few indulged in the joys of life: enjoying caviar and plankton paste, or inhaling a mildly narcotic liquid through their gills. Most of the soldiers floated relaxed in a variety of bizarre poses, surrendering to their inner experiences.
  A human would have thought silence reigned here. But connected to the Egrosi telepathic field, Kromlekh perceived it all as a continuous din and a chaos of color. Many were communicating with distant relatives, bidding them farewell, expressively uttering their last words. Others were immersed in deep meditation, and fragments of their visions reached the Blessed One—images of the cosmos or the planet's distant past. A large group, led by a warrior priest, had gathered for the service of the Adelinas. There, they telepathically reproduced a long, mournful chant to the Eternal Light, interspersed with the ancient ritual exclamation: "Hear the voice of Fire!"
  Some even appealed to the disembodied Passersby. These weren't prayers, but requests for intervention. It was said that sometimes they actually helped, but Kromlech had never encountered this before. As for him—even though the entire unit knew who served with them—no one asked for help. Obviously, such a thing couldn't possibly come from someone who hadn't yet been disembodied.
  And then Evgeny heard something strange and at the same time surprisingly familiar.
  "You are the salt of these waters. But how can you salt the salt of water when its strength has left it? It is no longer needed, and its egrosi will be cast out into a muddy channel. So is the light that is in you—a light for others to see. But if the light becomes dark, they will not see it. So it is—for the dark light must be cast out into the darkness and emptiness."
  A small group of soldiers gathered around an old veteran, covered in a strange network of black patterns and battle scars. He was mentally reciting these words, apparently quoting from some book he knew by heart. In his hand, he held a short, trident-shaped spear, the common weapon of Grot soldiers. However, this one was richly decorated with precious stones and shells.
  Evgeny suddenly felt a warmth and confidence fill his soul. For some reason, he longed to merge with the mental cloud of this group of soldiers and establish himself within it.
  But he knew he couldn't—they were followers of the Nameless One. The days of persecution against them were long gone; this teaching was officially banned only among the Grizi, but even some of them followed it. In all the other Grottoes, thoughts that had been punished for millennia ago were now permitted. However, even now, the sect of the Nameless One had only a small following, and those who believed this teaching were regarded by the rest of the Egrosi with a certain disdainful pity. It was unacceptable to speak of them, as if they suffered from a shameful, incurable disease. And it was unacceptable to speak of the Nameless One and his thoughts at all.
  The sect itself remained a small circle of initiates, extremely difficult for outsiders to join. Membership was usually familial. So now Evgeny could only pick up signals breaking through the telepathic hubbub.
  "Thus—the Egrosi will see your light through the good you do. Thus will the Father of the Universe hear you. But if your light fades, then you will plunge into the primordial darkness. Thus—the light, having become darkness, is darker than darkness!"
  The veteran raised his spear, and the soldiers gathered around him bowed and began making strange gestures, seemingly imitating stabbing themselves.
  “A spear, bright with the blood of the Son, slain and resurrected,” proclaimed the veteran, who was apparently some kind of priest.
  Then he continued to think from the ancient book:
  "The tunnels are narrow and winding, through which we sail to the All-Father. Few sail, far fewer reach. And do not seek other tunnels—they are lies. So! Fear the false ones who pass through them—you will not share their waters!"
  It sounded menacing, and Blagoy shuddered slightly. He didn't realize his hand was touching his chest where the cross had hung on Earth.
  "By the All-Father, and His Son, and His Power! Blessed Virgin, console us! Thus," concluded the priest, and his flock resumed their ritual movements.
  Their shared aura flared with a soft golden light, and for a moment, Evgeny was immersed in a profound peace. But the feeling quickly passed.
  Three hours later, the Grizii, who had fought their way through the collapsed ancient tunnels and thick layers of rock to help their own, struck the besiegers from behind. They routed the enemy and rescued the fortress's defenders. And the Good One never saw service to the Nameless One again.
  ...Awakening from visions of the past, Evgeny realized that the procession of pilgrims had stopped, and the aura of their shared prayer had dissipated. His companions looked at him without making any signs, expressing no judgment. But once again, he felt out of place here.
  28
  
  Ilona (Elena) Linkova-Delgado. Russia. Krasnoyarsk January 15, 2030
  She stared, stunned, at the retreating priest's back, unable not only to get up and leave, as she had so desperately wanted to do at the beginning of their conversation, but even to move. The word "stunned" best described her state.
  “Elena, I’m Elena,” she repeated silently, not realizing it.
  "Ilona, shake yourself up!" the order came as if from the outside, she shuddered and began to perceive what was happening more adequately.
  Actually, this reaction was incomprehensible—the priest hadn't said anything new to her. She was, thank God, an anthropologist and ethnographer, and she'd heard such speeches from countless people in all sorts of variations. It was just ordinary religious obscurantism, which needed to be analyzed and processed from a scientific perspective, and then used in an article.
  As for her own situation with these... "seers" (she still couldn't even think of Tash's name), it seemed she had indeed suffered a temporary mental breakdown. And so she should get up immediately, go to Galina, and figure out how to shield herself from the attention of the secret services. And all magic aside—along with this half-breed priest.
  Having come to such a sensible conclusion and convinced that her usual rationality had returned, she was about to put her intentions into action. But for some reason, she remained seated on the uncomfortable wooden bench.
  She felt scared again, as if her thoughts weren't entirely her own. What's more, as if someone else, someone cold and hostile, was thinking for her now.
  “This is how schizophrenia begins,” she thought, but was surprised to realize that the prospect of going crazy did not frighten her at all.
  But what was frightening—to the point of dizziness, nausea, and darkness before the eyes—was the need to leave the temple, go through the monastery gate, and find myself on the street.
  "Calm down," she urged herself. "Okay, just sit here for now if you don't want to go. You're in no hurry."
  But I couldn’t sit still either—frightening “foreign” thoughts periodically burst in.
  Bells rang out from above, and the muffled patter of a psalm-reader echoed from within the church. The service was beginning. Ilona stood and hesitantly followed the sounds.
  “Well, in the end,” she thought, “I’ll stand at work, calm down and go.”
  After thinking a little more, she awkwardly put on the cross and entered the temple.
  Despite it being a weekday, there were a lot of people there.
  “River Jordan, rise, lift up, leap, and baptize the coming Master,” the choir sang.
  Ilona Maksimovna rarely attended Orthodox services, but, in general, she rather liked their atmosphere.
  — Christ appeared, desiring to renew all creation...
  She stood quietly in the last row of parishioners. The rhythmic singing, the mysterious faces on the icons, the glow of flickering candles on golden vestments, and the sweet scent of incense calmed her.
  — ...For I came to save the first-created Adam.
  "You idiot! Look at yourself! You're standing there like an idiot, listening to all this crap! Now get outside! You have no business here!"
  Angry, hysterical thoughts exploded in her head like firecrackers, leaving a long, foul trail. The singing suddenly became out of tune, the images seemed to twist mockingly, and instead of the fragrance of incense, Ilona smelled a nauseating stench.
  Anger literally rolled over her in waves, from head to toe, causing her entire body to shudder convulsively.
  "Run! Run away from here quickly!" flashed inside her.
  But she remained where she was—her innate skepticism kicking in again. Indeed, the sudden change in her condition could have had many causes—a symptom of mental illness, or... an allergy to incense, say. Or... Or it really was coming from somewhere outside.
  Oddly enough, these thoughts relieved the anger that had been shaking her.
  “Why should I leave? It was scary outside, but here I felt calm,” she said to herself or to someone else, and stayed.
  “Save us with your prayers, Seraphim, our venerable father,” the choir now sang.
  And if she stays, it would be logical to continue what she has already started.
  What did he say there? Right aisle...
  It wasn't that she was seriously considering confession, but it was in her nature to experience everything to the end, so she could form an informed opinion about it. She'd come to where she had come, and they'd told her what they'd told her. And since she'd started this, she needed to finish it first—that is, perform all the required actions at this point—and only then admit her foolishness in following her superstitious sister's lead.
  So Ilona calmed herself with logical reasoning, squeezing through the standing people to the dark right aisle.
  There were only a few people there, apparently disliking the tight crowd in the center of the church. Father Fyodor stood at the lectern, now wearing a long stole over his cassock. He gestured invitingly to Ilona.
  Her legs suddenly felt weak. She really, really didn't want to go there! And why would she go there? To engage in mental exhibitionism? Shameful and disgusting!
  The priest looked at her with understanding and waited.
  "Run! It's not too late!" the thought burst into my mind again.
  She burst in and... was shattered by Ilona's impenetrable stubbornness. She had decided to go through with this ritual, and she would! Afraid to change her mind, she took a couple of quick steps and found herself before the priest.
  “Get on your knees,” he said quietly.
  "What?" the woman snapped.
  - That's how it has to be.
  “We must,” echoed within her.
  Not believing what she was doing, she fell to her knees and covered her head with an epitrachelion.
  “Repent of your sins, Elena,” Father Theodore’s voice rang out.
  She felt as if she were completely alone in a deep, dark pit, where she couldn't see a thing. She remained dumbly silent, not knowing what to say. The priest waited patiently.
  And then it was as if she burst out. The story poured out, as if against her will. She spoke of all the bad and shameful things that had happened to her since childhood. It was completely incomprehensible how she remembered it all, but there it was...
  Father Fyodor listened without expressing his attitude.
  Ilona fell silent as suddenly as she had spoken.
  “May our Lord and God, Jesus Christ, by the grace and generosity of His love for mankind forgive your child Helen...” she heard above her.
  The epitrachelion was removed from her head, and she rose to her feet, looking at the priest in amazement.
  He, however, was calm, as if nothing special had happened, as if the world in which this woman had spent seventy-three years had not been turned upside down before his eyes.
  "Have you eaten or drunk anything today?" he asked.
  "Yes, the cocoa is in the cafe now..." Ilona replied, confused. "Oh, no, I didn't have time..."
  Tash's terrible face appeared in her mind again, but somehow vaguely, as if from afar.
  "Okay," the priest nodded. "You may receive communion. And after the service, wait for me where we spoke."
  And he left. And Ilona remained among the praying crowd. The service had captured her and carried her away. It vaguely resembled swimming underwater, when not a single movement is accidental, when, to exist here, you must integrate into the environment. But once integrated, magical beauty opens up to you.
  She crossed herself and bowed along with everyone else, and even sang the troparia. And she didn't think about how ridiculous and absurd she looked. That caustic, skeptical part of her hadn't disappeared, but it seemed to have been temporarily deprived of its voice.
  She took her place in line for communion and received it. The feelings she experienced were varied, vivid, and unfamiliar. Ilona decided to think about them later. For now, she felt completely calm and quiet.
  After the Liturgy, she went out to the narthex. Father Fyodor, wearing a sheepskin coat over his cassock, was already waiting for her.
  “For the health of the body, for the salvation of the soul,” he told her.
  Not knowing what to answer, she simply bowed her head.
  "Ilona Maximovna," the priest began, "Please listen to me calmly, think carefully, and decide."
  This introduction made her uneasy. It was unpleasant—she didn't want to leave the blissful feeling of security and peace. But she nodded and prepared to listen.
  "This... this entity that's attached itself to you, it's very powerful," Father Fyodor said. "I've been performing exorcisms for many years, but believe me, neither I nor any other priest who performs exorcisms have ever encountered anything like this. Besides, there are things here that I don't fully understand myself. And they're connected to my own family history. So I see two solutions."
  He was silent for a moment. The woman waited tensely.
  “You could stay here, in the monastery,” he fell silent again, and Ilona looked at him in amazement.
  "Understand," the priest continued, "she won't just leave you alone. Now you've received the Holy Gifts and are in God's church, and she won't get to you. But there..."
  He nodded towards the monastery wall, behind which the city was noisy.
  "As soon as you go out there, she'll show up—one way or another. And you'll have a hard time resisting her. But you can arrange it so that from that moment on you won't go outside again."
  "So, I'll become a nun?" Ilona asked sullenly.
  “It’s a long process, but in the end, yes,” Father Fyodor nodded.
  Surprisingly, Ilona Maksimovna Linkova-Delgado, Doctor of Historical Sciences and professor, seriously considered this proposal for several minutes. And it wasn't until she immediately shook her head.
  "I thought so," the priest remarked, "And, frankly speaking, I still find it difficult to imagine you in the apostolnik."
  - What about another way?
  "He's much more... dangerous," Father Theodore replied slowly. "Both for you and for me. Moreover, I risk being defrocked, since what I intend to do is not entirely appropriate for him."
  - What is this?
  "How can I put it... Basically, a battle with a demon, face to face. Just like my shaman ancestors did. But calling for help not from other demons, but from God."
  This interested Ilona much more...
  “How will this happen?” she asked.
  "I'll explain," the priest nodded. "We'll go right now to Karaulnaya Mountain, to the chapel."
  In her life, Ilona had only been to the Paraskeva Pyatnitsa Chapel two or three times, known throughout the country from its image on ruble banknotes. But, of course, she had seen it hovering above the city many times. Why they had to climb a steep, snow-covered hill in such cold weather, she had no idea, but she nodded.
  "This mountain was once called Kum-Tigey and was sacred to the local people," Father Fyodor continued. "It was considered the guardian of this place. It remains a kind of 'assemblage point' for Krasnoyarsk, spiritually, of course. But it was sacred long before the Kachins and Yenisei Kyrgyz, who lived here before the Russians arrived. In fact, there's a pyramid there, built by a very ancient and cultured people."
  "Really?" Ilona glanced at him, her scientific skepticism awakening.
  Father Fyodor shrugged.
  "I understand your distrust, but you know that pyramids aren't just in Egypt... or Mexico. They're just more visible and better known there..."
  It was true - ancient pyramidal structures are scattered all over the world, even underwater.
  "And we're not talking about the entire hill, just its summit, where a pyramid was once built," the priest continued. "Now there's a chapel on it."
  "So what?" Ilona still didn't understand how all this applied to her.
  "I told you—it was... and still is—a place of power. A point where our world meets other worlds. A crossroads between them. It used to be completely possessed by spirits, and shamans came there to commune with them. Now a temple of God stands there. But your demon will undoubtedly come there for you. I will confront him, and I will defeat him—with God's help."
  — And me?
  - You should be there.
  - And how will it all end?
  "Who knows," the priest shrugged again. "I hope the demon goes back to its own realm and won't haunt you anymore. But..."
  "What?" The anxiety was raging inside her again.
  "I..." the priest began, "I try to look at you with spiritual vision—as I do with everyone who comes to me to be rid of their inner enemies. But you... are very different from all of them."
  - With what?
  "I see your soul fragmented... into many, many pieces. They reach out to each other, but are scattered across many worlds. Perhaps what I want to do will help you reassemble these pieces into a single personality, find wholeness and... true peace."
  "I don't understand," Ilona whispered, as if to herself. "But I'll go."
  - Then there is no point in putting it off.
  "Wait," she stopped the priest. "What about Zhenya? What does this skeleton, this codex, and... everything mean?"
  "I think what I just said about you applies to him too," Father Theodore replied. "He's in God's hands. Just like all of us."
  When the two of them walked out of the monastery gate, Tash stood in front of them.
  For a moment, a wave of dread washed over Ilona—like when her mother read her a scary story as a child. Tash's appearance perfectly matched this feeling. She was incredibly beautiful, incredibly terrifying, and simply unbelievable—something like the Snow Queen or the White Witch. Tall as a pine tree, she shone in the January sun like a frost-covered fir tree. Translucent, but not ghostly—it was obvious that she was fully present in this world and could act within it. This figure towered motionless, reminiscent of a masterpiece of ancient statue. But the glittering eyes in her stark white face and the serpentine smile on her bloodshot lips indicated that this monster was alive with some twisted life and was very dangerous.
  But the people didn't notice that a demon had visited them. They scurried around her, hurrying about their business, though they avoided the spot where Tash stood.
  “Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered, and let those who hate Him flee from His face,” Father Theodore sang quietly, and, raising the cross, he went.
  Ilona followed him. But no matter which way they turned, they saw Tash, grinning coldly, moving inexplicably.
  — As smoke vanishes, so let them vanish; as wax melts before the fire, so let the demons perish before the face of those who love God...
  Strangely, the freezing Ilona didn't feel cold at all in the minus-25 degree weather, with the cold wind cutting into her face. They walked along streets, deserted by the frost, sometimes steeply descending, sometimes rising steeply, and Tash walked ahead of them.
  The journey was long—Ilona never questioned why they hadn't taken the bus, but walked the entire way up the steep mountainside. She simply didn't notice and didn't even feel tired, although her age and ailments should have caused her to collapse somewhere halfway.
  — Rejoice, most honorable and life-giving Cross of the Lord, who drives away demons by the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, who was crucified upon you...
  Ilona tried not to look at Tash's monstrous figure, but it still drew her gaze. It seemed to float above the city, as constant as the chapel, which was also constantly in their line of sight.
  “Why isn’t it attacking?” Ilona thought.
  Perhaps it was the prayer the priest recited incessantly. But it seemed that as they approached the mountaintop, this frightened the witch less and less. Her figure grew closer, growing larger, looming and overpowering. Father Fyodor seemed oblivious, but Ilona grew more and more terrified.
  At some point, on the final leg of their journey, when the chapel was almost level with them, Ilona felt as if the seer was about to attack them. An aura of infernal aggression swept over them like a slashing gust of wind, freezing the blood in their veins. Tash loomed directly in front of them, blocking their way. The road to the chapel, she herself, the snow-covered trees and benches, all appeared as blurry spots through the witch's translucent figure.
  But Father Fyodor continued to advance, as if he saw no danger. They would soon be right next to Tash, and then... Ilona's body tensed in anticipation of the fight, a surge of adrenaline shaking her. Although it was completely unclear how to fight such a monster.
  But there was no need to do so—another figure appeared next to Tash, also resembling a huge statue in the frosty glow. It was a man with a Mongoloid face and long hair frozen around his head like a diamond crown. He extended his hand and pushed Tash out of their way. And she complied.
  The path was clear, the icy man had disappeared, and Ilona and Father Fyodor, who continued to pray, approached the chapel. Rising from the snow, with a green hipped roof and golden dome, it resembled a pencil with which someone intended to write a message on the clear winter sky.
  "Perhaps," Ilona thought, looking at the mound on top of the hill where the chapel stood, "this really is something artificial. Perhaps a burial mound. Or a collapsed pyramid..."
  What was surprising was that there wasn't a soul here. Of course, it's unlikely there would have been many strollers in such frost, but at least there were some... For example, a guard at the signal cannon that fired every noon. Although the soldiers were probably hiding from the cold in their guardhouse.
  From here, the city also looked deserted, as if all its inhabitants had vanished in an instant. Only the frost-covered rooftops sparkled, and the gloomy snow-capped hills loomed above.
  They climbed the steps laid out on the hill. The priest took out the keys and opened the chapel doors.
  "Is there no one here now?" Ilona asked.
  "I called the candle-bearing mother and asked her to leave so I could pray alone. They know I do such things, and always for a reason," the priest replied and went inside.
  Ilona followed him, but froze at the threshold.
  She remembered the room here being quite small, no bigger than a kitchenette in a prefabricated building—it could only accommodate a few worshippers at a time. But now she entered a huge church with majestic, bright icons lining the walls and a huge crucifix in the distance.
  "She's bigger on the inside than on the outside!" Ilona blurted out in amazement.
  “You imagined it,” the priest answered shortly.
  He crossed himself three times with deep bows, took off his sheepskin coat, hung it on a hanger standing behind the table with church treasures, and approached the crucifix.
  Ilona continued to stand on the threshold, not believing her eyes.
  There were numerous candles burning here, and all the oil lamps were flickering. Father Fyodor stood in the center of the chapel and immersed himself in prayer.
  Suddenly, the light outside dimmed. Ilona winced and peered out the door. It was night outside, even though it had just been midday. She was amazed to see the starry sky, but it was completely different from what one would see here at this time of day. A very bright Mars caught her eye—a piercing red dot.
  “Our Lord Jesus Christ, who descended into hell,” the priest prayed.
  The stars disappeared. There was nothing left—a thick darkness that seemed about to crush and engulf them. Ilona glanced around frantically. The lights in the chapel still flickered, and Father Feodor's prayers echoed.
  She turned back to the street and nearly screamed in horror—a wall of flames was approaching the chapel from all sides. Ilona felt the unbearable heat and the suffocating smell of smoke. She had once driven through a stretch of road with a forest fire raging on both sides. But what she saw now was a hundred times more horrific.
  — ...And trampled upon the power of the devil.
  Just as Ilona was about to plunge into the fire, it suddenly vanished. The icy darkness remained all around. However, gaps appeared. They widened, and soon Ilona saw a plain that had mysteriously appeared before her. Barren, but not deserted. A vast army surrounded the chapel on all sides. Ilona saw fierce Indian warriors, feathered and painted, brandishing spears and macuahuitls. There were also inhuman creatures—terrifying, enormous reptilians with powerful tails and some truly terrifying objects in their long claws. Bright banners fluttered above the troops, and wild martial music thundered on unknown instruments.
  A loud command rang out, and the army charged with a terrifying roar. It was clear they were about to simply sweep away the chapel, along with the two men.
  — ...And who gave us His Honorable Cross to drive out every adversary.
  Ilona had already seen the distorted faces of people and the terrifying, grinning visages of monsters, whip-like, pointed tongues protruding from their mouths. The stench of countless sweaty bodies and another strange odor overwhelmed her. But as the weapon was raised above her head, the scene changed again.
  Now it was something unimaginable. Like pieces torn from the flesh of different worlds, thrown together. She saw fragments of alien skies, creatures unlike any other, scenes clearly from the earthly past and, it seemed, the future. But there were more unearthly images that she simply did not understand. And some fragments defied all definition—like pieces of abstract paintings. And all of this, like a kaleidoscope, was in constant motion, one fragment instantly replacing another, and so on endlessly.
  Apparently, this is what primordial chaos should look like.
  Ilona's head spun. Of all she'd seen today, the sight before her was the wildest and most terrifying.
  But then, from the blatant confusion, something very familiar crystallized. At first, Ilona didn't even understand what it was. Apparently, her brain, stunned by the visual madness before it, refused to define anything.
  But it was Zhenya.
  Before her, against the backdrop of a Babylonian confusion of worlds, hung the face of Cromlech. It was mournful and pensive, its eyes closed. Or rather, one eye—in place of the other half of the face, there was a bare skull—as on his eerie monument at the cenote.
  "Zhenya!" Ilona screamed.
  The chaos vanished, the head of the Cromlech vanished. A sandy desert stretched to the horizon—only a few whitish, jagged rocks jutted out in the distance. Above it all hung a reddish, distinctly unearthly sky.
  And in the distance—but closer to the cliffs—stood an ordinary, earthly barn. Plank walls on a solid boulder foundation, a thatched roof... Ilona Maximovna had never seen it from the outside, but she realized that this was the very barn Carol Tash had once drawn her to in her altered state.
  And she also realized that she had to go there.
  - For what?
  Father Fyodor stood nearby.
  “I have to,” Ilona answered quietly and stubbornly.
  The priest nodded in understanding.
  “For my friends...” he said as if to himself.
  Ilona took a step out of the chapel. Another. And another.
  - Don't get lost, Elena!
  Father Fyodor's voice seemed to come from far away. Ilona turned around, but the chapel was gone behind her—only a desert under alien skies. The trail of her footprints began out of nowhere.
  She turned back to the barn and saw that she was now standing right next to it. She pushed the doors. They creaked open, but swung open easily.
   29
  
  Ilona Linkova. Russian Atlantis, Roslavl. August 11, 1980 (12.18.7.2.18, and 12 Etznab, and 1 Yakshin)
  In greeting, Lenmena made an intricate gesture indicating her Mohican heritage.
  Obeying the order, Ilona followed her seniors to the luxurious red oak table, piercing the Atlantean woman with her gaze.
  “Report, Colonel,” Tamantsev ordered.
  "Evgeny Vladimirovich," Stolyarov began, "let me brief the junior officers—they don't have the full picture."
  "I don't have the full picture either; it's too serious a matter," the general chuckled. "If it weren't for the extraordinary circumstances," he said, turning to both girls, "you wouldn't be here at all. So listen carefully to what you need to know."
  "About a year ago, associates arrested Malinalko's agent, Polish professor Jakub Jagielski, in Warsaw," Stolyarov began. "You know how counterintelligence works with clients... Anyway, he quickly agreed to cooperate. From an analysis of his testimony, it became clear that Aztlan suspects the Russian Empire of possessing a weapon of devastating power, capable of radically altering the balance of power on the planet. And, oddly enough, they drew this conclusion from the novel of your protégé, Cromlech..."
  Stolyarov turned to Ilona.
  “Nikolai Alekseevich, I don’t understand,” the girl responded, confused.
  “We don’t understand it well either,” Tamantsev admitted.
  "There's no way Cromlech could have had such information. But apparently, Aztlan intelligence believes he obtained it through some... dark means. You know, all their seers, naguals, and other Atlantean devilry."
  Ilona noticed that Lenmena smiled fleetingly at these words, but she was not interested in that now.
  “You mean to say,” she said quietly, her heart turning cold, “that we really do have such a weapon...”
  Stolyarov and Tamantsev remained silent, and this was more eloquent than any words.
  "The problem is," the colonel continued, "that, judging again by Yagelsky's analysis of the information, the scientists of the Great Aztlan have either already created a bomb or are very close to it. We knew they were implementing their own developments in this area, but we didn't think they'd gone this far."
  "This is very worrying for the other Atlantic governments," the general added. "Even Illinois and Bogota, which remained neutral during the war, are now ready to enter into an anti-Aztlan agreement. And in this operation, we are working jointly with Iroquois intelligence."
  “But she...” Ilona nodded at Lenmena in bewilderment.
  "Our allies believe things will go better if they convince the Aztlans that they're on their side," Tamantsev winced slightly. "In reality, Iroquoian intelligence, like that of Comancheria and Lakota, is currently working in tandem with us. The Great Aztlan wants to completely drive us out of here, to close the door on Russian possessions in Atlantis altogether. But the other states here have no desire to be left alone with the Aztlans, who, according to the doctrine of Xoqoitzin, consider all other Atlantean peoples to be their potential slaves."
  Ilona recalled some recent political events: the obvious cooling of relations between Russia and Iroquois, the harsh statements by its government about the undesirability of the palefaces' presence on the sacred land of their ancestors, the diplomatic rapprochement between the Iroquois and the Aztlans... In principle, there was nothing surprising about this: Iroquois foreign policy had always been distinguished by sophisticated cunning, and their intelligence - by astonishing impudence.
  “Perhaps the junior sagamore could explain the situation in more detail,” Tamancev nodded towards Lenmena.
  "Hug," she responded with the traditional interjection. "Within my jurisdiction, of course, great leader."
  She paused briefly, collecting her thoughts, and then spoke, listing the facts dryly and dispassionately.
  — The Atetshents began talking about the fact that the Aztlans had acquired a weapon with which they could destroy the entire earth about two years ago.
  Tamancev, having heard about the Iroquois clairvoyants, shrugged his shoulders skeptically, but Lenmena did not pay attention to this.
  — Our assembly of chiefs issued a wampum ordering that this warning from the Great Spirit be carefully studied.
  "The Assembly of Chiefs"—Rotianer—designated the government of the Haudenosoni Union, which was only known to the outside world as Iroquoia (the same, incidentally, applied to Comancheria, which was known internally as the Land of Numunu). But despite all this verbal exotica, the government departments of the peoples of Northern Atlantis functioned efficiently and effectively—at least when it came to military matters.
  “I was included in the group because my family has always had an orenda,” the squaw continued.
  Ilona understood that it wasn't just Lenmena's possession of mystical powers (though that was part of it). Her family name belonged to a renowned warrior family that had provided Iroquoisia with brilliant officers throughout its history.
  "I should have contacted Malinalco's station chief in Manahatta and allowed myself to be recruited," Lenmena explained. "It wasn't very difficult—Aztlan is constantly trying to recruit agents from us. Then we learned they were interested in Yevgeny Kromlekh—they were asking me for information about his connections with citizens of our Union, which he might have acquired during the war."
  “Around that time, Yagelsky approached Kromlech in Warsaw,” Tamantsev intervened again.
  “By this time,” Lenmena said, as if she had not been interrupted, “my leadership had already officially, albeit secretly, entered into an alliance with Aztlan intelligence.
  Tamantsev nodded.
  "I was assigned to go to Eastern Aztlan, to Fortuna, where Cromlech was scheduled to arrive to give a lecture about his novel, and to establish contact with him," the squaw recounted. "I was ordered to work with the people from Malinalco—there were eagles and jaguars there. Another part of my assignment was to coordinate with Russian intelligence..."
  "My group was already there," Stolyarov said, not looking at Ilona. "We also had to work against British agents—they showed up unexpectedly at the last stage of the operation. One of them was captured by jaguars. The British presence in this case was a surprise to us. Although not a big one—they stick their noses into everything."
  Ilona shuddered at the realization that while she was enjoying her “rest” on the Fortunas, all this spy fuss was going on around her.
  "I made contact with Kromlech," Lenmena said evenly. "I knew that after the lecture, a group of eagles was supposed to kidnap him and fly him across the ocean. My task was to cover up this operation."
  "If everything had happened as we planned," Stolyarov continued, "he would have been sent to Aztlan, leaving his wife with the Fortunas. We wouldn't have interfered."
  Ilona didn't ask how her home office intended to deal with her: after all, she had taken an oath, as her boss had reminded her... Now the girl understood that her chances of staying alive were low in any scenario.
  She recalled with shame her earlier thoughts about Russian intelligence becoming too lax after the war. Only now did she realize the full depth of her naivety in the face of the dark and titanic secret struggle between states, of which most people remain unaware.
  Lenmena looked down slightly.
  "I made a mistake," she said after a slight pause, but still with the same dispassionate tone. "To avoid arousing the enemy's suspicions, I left the Cromlechs unattended after the meeting. I knew they were being watched not only by the Eagles, with whom I was in contact, but also by the Jaguars—a group of the Teteuctin Chimalpopoca. The Eagles hadn't planned the capture until the following evening, when the plane was supposed to be ready. The operation was complicated by the fact that the government of Eastern Aztlan, despite its alliance with Great Aztlan, strongly disapproves of such things. Furthermore, as it turned out, there was no coordination between the Aztlan intelligence groups. The Eagles had no idea that Chimalpopoca wanted to sacrifice the Cromlechs.
  Ilona shuddered once again, while Lenmena continued:
  “I also didn’t foresee that the Teteuktin would have his own plans and support in the form of a local gang of pachucos.
  "They were part of the Ish-Tab sect," Stolyarov added. "After the Cromlech was sacrificed, they would all have committed suicide. So they weren't afraid of anything."
  "As soon as I learned that Kromlekh's wife had been killed and that he was hiding in the city, I reported it to the Eagles. With the support of a high-ranking police officer in Chikomoztok, they received police equipment, a helicopter, and permission to operate in the city. The search was extensive, albeit secret. However, we were almost too late: the Ingiz agent had already been sacrificed, and it was Kromlekh's turn."
  Lenmena turned to Ilona, whom she had not looked at throughout her entire report.
  "I saw you hiding on the teocalli, but I ordered you not to be touched. I knew your people were waiting for you. You're a brave warrior. And he, too..."
  At the last phrase, the red-skinned girl's face softened slightly, and something quite unorthodox flashed across it. A dreamy tenderness?
  A wave of acidic anger immediately rose up within Ilona. Second Lieutenant Linkova assured herself it was purely professional rivalry, not just jealousy...
  However, Junior Sagamore Hingahgok immediately became a dispassionate reporting agent again.
  "After neutralizing Chimalpopoca's group, I immobilized Cromlech with a drug and transferred him to the plane. Hug, I've said it all."
  Lenmena sat down, silently looking ahead.
  After a short silence, Tamantsev spoke.
  "It must be stated that the operation, despite numerous setbacks, achieved its goal. According to our intelligence, Cromlech is now in Tenochtitlan and is being interrogated personally by the Huey Tlatoani. We could only hope for such success. Now our goal is simple..."
  Ilona, shocked by everything she'd heard, looked up at him in surprise. She'd been certain that Yevgeny had been sacrificed to confirm the theory that Great Aztlan possessed this cursed weapon. Now the allied intelligence services could only observe and glean bits of information from their agents in the enemy camp. And the Cromlech had been written off. Perhaps the fact of its abduction and elimination would later be used in some diplomatic game. But that's all. Then what other goal was the general talking about?
  But Tamantsev continued weightily:
  "Now we must carry out an operation to free Yevhen Kromlekh and exfiltrate him. And those present here will do it."
  ...By evening, Ilona went outside. She was accommodated in a small family-run guesthouse run by a couple of retirees from the "Glass House"—the sweetest old men. Ilona suspected that these kind and quiet people had been through thick and thin in their lives, and even now, given the opportunity, they could give many young people a run for their money.
  She couldn't sit still in her room—distressing thoughts and a nagging sense of anxiety. The cool, sea-scented air brought a slight sense of relief. Ilona was no different from the numerous tourists milling about the evening streets. Sitting on a bench in an alley of fancifully trimmed trees, between a fountain and a bed of luxurious flowers, Second Lieutenant Linkova tried to compose herself. She was so lost in her thoughts that she barely noticed the group of excitedly shouting Atlanteans playing a game of sticks a few benches away.
  She knew that once the operation began, her depression would vanish without a trace—only the desire to do everything as best as possible would remain. But this operation wasn't just unusual—it was incredible. And desperate. Ilona understood that they were most likely all being sent to their deaths.
  "Mission Impossible," she said with a bitter smile.
  Of course, the group hadn't been sent to Aztlan out of good fortune. Ilona knew Tamantsev and Stolyarov hadn't told her much, but from the chief's few hints, she guessed things were very bad. It wasn't about a war that could one day destroy most of humanity. This war, it seemed, could break out at any moment...
  An approaching patrol dispersed the group of players, who scattered, showering the scowling police officers with elaborate curses in their tribal languages. Ilona automatically noted the incident, but her anxious thoughts continued.
  The fact that two superpowers simultaneously possessed this hellish weapon shocked both sides. Panic dictated one course of action—attack before the enemy could recover.
  Suddenly, the figure of the writer Cromlech assumed enormous significance—Aztlan wouldn't strike until it extracted all the information from him. But the allies had to at least try to take this bait they'd planted, which now surely held invaluable information, from the enemy.
  There was only one bright spot in all of this: Evgeny was still alive.
  As for her role in this story, she understood that Stolyarov had fallen into the trap of secret warfare. Ilona had been sacrificed on the Fortunas, but she had survived. This meant she was sufficiently prepared for a more serious operation. And, of course, she had to be included in the sabotage group sent to save the Cromlech. For the fewer people, even secret agents, privy to this matter, the safer it would be.
  Deep down, she knew she would have done exactly the same thing if she'd been Stolyarov. But that was little consolation.
  Stolyarov, however, went with the group himself—he led it.
  However, all these considerations faded into insignificance when confronted with the prospect of saving a man she'd known for only a few hours, but who had already become so important to her. Now, facing battle and, most likely, death, the girl could admit this to herself.
  It was terrible that she couldn't tell anyone where she was going or why—not even her sister. Galya would simply be informed that she had fallen defending the Empire, and perhaps given a reward she couldn't show anyone anyway.
  A bell rang nearby. Ilona looked up, saw the domes of the Orthodox church, and made the sign of the cross. The service was about to begin, and she knew her place was there.
  While one priest served the all-night vigil, another heard confessions in the dark left aisle. Naturally, Ilona couldn't join the line of penitents. She would definitely confess and receive Communion before the operation, but only with the GRU chaplain—even a priest, if he were an outsider, was forbidden to hear her confession.
  The girl listened to the singing, prayed, crossed herself, and gradually her melancholy and anxiety subsided. Whatever would happen would happen, and she would fulfill her duty. And she would save Evgeny.
  If God willing.
  "What's your name?" an old, shaky voice rang out above her.
  Ilona, torn from the stream of thoughts mixed with prayers, raised her head in surprise.
  The priest who had finished the confession stood next to her.
  “State your name,” he asked again.
  “Elena,” for some reason she said her baptismal name.
  The priest was quite decrepit, with wrinkled brown skin and a sparse gray beard. An Asian, or perhaps an Inuit from the north. This wasn't surprising—among the parishioners were not only Slavs and Atlanteans, but also Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, people from the Pacific Ocean islands, even Malays and Indians. This was the Russian Atlantis...
  From a face made entirely of sharp angles, like a portrait painted by a Cubist, piercing, narrow black eyes looked at Ilona – intently, but somehow detachedly.
  "Don't be afraid of anything," the priest said suddenly with true conviction. "I will pray."
  Stunned, Ilona bowed her head to receive the blessing, and when she raised it, the old priest had already disappeared into the sacristy. It all happened so quickly that the girl wasn't sure it wasn't a hallucination brought on by terrible emotional stress.
  Two priests served the all-night vigil, but she never saw the one who approached her.
  As she left the service, Ilona read on the board in the narthex: "Church of the Holy Reverend Herman of Alaska. Rector: Father Fyodor Kopenkin."
  
   Evgeniy Cromlech. Great Aztlan, Tenochtitlan. August 18, 1980 (12.18.7.3.5, and 6 Chik-chan, and 8 Yakshin)
  The cromlech didn't know how long he spent in the palace prison of the Way Tlatoani. Several days, a week, maybe two—he had no watch or calendar. Although this large, comfortable room could hardly be called a prison, despite its windowless exterior.
  He was well fed, his room was cleaned, he was given books, and once a day he was taken for a walk to a small atrium on one of the roofs of this grand, bizarre building, almost a city, centuries old and repeatedly rebuilt. Every morning, a female attendant of the medical priests, a tisitl, would arrive and escort him, accompanied by guards, for a comprehensive medical examination, which usually lasted a couple of hours.
  Both the tisitl and the guards limited themselves to brief remarks and refused to answer his questions. There was no television in the room, and no newspapers were provided, so Evgeny had no idea about the latest events. He didn't even know whether the news of the mysterious kidnapping of a world-famous writer and the murder of his wife had caused an uproar in the media, or whether the Russian Empire was doing anything to search for him.
  But when he asked for a typewriter and paper, completely unsure of what would be done, to his great surprise they arrived by evening. The cromlech understood the Hueytlatoani's hope that he would write something important. However, beyond what he had already told him, he could tell nothing more. So he took up a story he had long since imagined from the world of "The Man with the Cat." At the beginning of the 17th century, an embassy of the Tupinambá people from South Atlantis, known in that world as America, arrives in France. One young man from the embassy remains there and becomes a confidant of the king.
  For the world of his novel, this situation was quite exotic, and for the real world, where France had disappeared in the 15th century, crushed by the Aztlan d'Orient, the British possessions on the continent, and Burgundy, it was simply unbelievable. Evgeny derived pleasure and assuaged the acute anxiety that was debilitating him, inventing the realities of a world that never existed, reinterpreting historical events, and ultimately producing something surprisingly coherent and logical. However, now it also slightly frightened him. Since he was almost certain that his imaginary world actually existed—or exists—in reality.
  However, when he read the manuscript of the unknown monk John, the translation of which the Hueytlatoani had given him, a few days ago, his interest was rather moderate.
  “Believe me, this is not a fake fabricated by my people to influence you,” said Montezuma, guessing Cromlech’s first thought.
  “So, it’s just an interesting coincidence of names and circumstances,” he shrugged.
  The Emperor shook his head.
  "Do you believe this yourself?" he asked.
  — There have been worse coincidences in my life...
  “Then let’s go,” the emperor invited and stood up.
  The cromlech followed him into the adjacent hall, the entrance to which was concealed by luxurious drapery. Guards and the masked man followed closely behind.
  The room resembled a laboratory, or perhaps an operating room. At any rate, it was bathed in the merciless light of fluorescent lamps and furnished with utilitarian furniture.
  Montezuma approached the table on which lay a long object covered with a white cloth.
  "I love and encourage archaeological research," he remarked. "Knowledge of the past is the greatest treasure, worth accumulating. However, I have withdrawn this object from scientific circulation until all the circumstances are clarified... Of course, it will be thoroughly examined, but only by trusted experts who do not place scientific research above the interests of state."
  With these words, he carefully lifted the blanket.
  Cromlech saw the skeletal parts laid out on a table under a transparent glass lid. At first glance, it was clear that in life the man had been quite tall and had a large head.
  “The skeleton discovered by archaeologists in Sinai,” Montezuma introduced the bones.
  Evgeny winced when he saw a substantial dent on the ancient skull—the same one he had. Although the skeleton was just like any other skeleton—it was immediately obvious it was old and belonged to a grown man. Well, the man had lived in hard times, when getting such a forehead decoration was a common occurrence.
  The cromlech looked questioningly at the emperor.
  “Now here,” said Montezuma, going to another table and removing the cloth from a smaller object, which turned out to be a plaster sculpture portrait.
  "The appearance of a buried monk from the 7th century, reconstructed using the method of your academician Gerasimov," the emperor commented.
  This truly shocked Kromlech. There was no mistaking it—Eugene saw these features every time he looked in the mirror. He couldn't respond to it—he simply tried to somehow integrate what he'd just seen into reality.
  "And finally," Montezuma spoke again. "Not long ago, one of our geneticists discovered a method for identifying individuals using DNA. You know what that is, right?"
  Cromlech nodded.
  "It's not fully tested yet, but it works perfectly—if only there was genetic material," the monarch continued. "In this case, there is—a fair amount of DNA was preserved in the monk's remains. And yours was collected by eagles several years ago. Can you guess what the tests showed?"
  Evgeny remained silent—he'd guessed, of course, but he didn't want to believe it. However, Montezuma finished mercilessly:
  "The samples are identical. This person... I don't even know how to say it... In short, it's your own skeleton. Or your identical twin's, which is equally unlikely."
  Kromlech felt as if he'd suddenly fallen into the vacuum of space, thrown into deep space and floating in a vacuum—not breathing, not thinking, yet somehow remaining conscious. From the moment he met the Huay-tlatoani, he'd been plotting a suicidal attack on him. Evgeny had no doubt he could defeat him with his bare hands—he just needed to wait for the right moment and apply one brutal hold, breaking the emperor's neck in a matter of seconds. The guards wouldn't have time to do anything. Of course, Kromlech himself would be killed, but he knew they wouldn't let him go alive.
  And the opportune moment had arrived—they stood side by side with the Huey-tlatoani, with the guards and the strange masked man at a considerable distance. But Evgeny was unable to move a muscle, as if he'd been poisoned by a paralyzing toxin.
  “I know you want to kill me,” Montezuma said quietly. “Of course, I have the same intentions for you, though I don’t hate you, only respect. In my place, any ruler—your queen, the Queen of Britain, the President of the United Europe, and all the rest—would have liquidated you already. For the sake of saving their state and their people. Because you represent an insoluble riddle, and that is mortally dangerous by definition. However, the peoples of my continent, my people, think somewhat differently. What I see now is not a dangerous and inexplicable precedent that must be nipped in the bud and forgotten as quickly as possible. I see the interplay of cosmic forces that rule this world... the will of the gods, if you will, and I cannot ignore it. So neither you nor I can kill each other now, because we are bound by some kind of duty.”
  “We need to figure out what the hell this is,” Cromlech said quietly, looking at the skeleton.
  The Emperor nodded.
  "You need a thorough examination. These remains indicate that this person suffered numerous injuries and serious intoxications during life. We need to figure out how your body differs from... your body from the past. And then... then I'll make a decision."
  Evgeny realized Montezuma had left him no choice—not even suicide. He would meekly surrender his body for research—to solve this insane riddle. And he also realized that the Hueytlatoani felt the same—beyond his duty to unravel the will of the gods and his desire to secure his realm and throne, he, like Cromlech, was consumed by a thirst for personal understanding of the secrets of the universe. Evgeny clearly sensed the aura enveloping the remains—the trace of forces whose origins lay elsewhere—and he longed to understand them... He also thought that under different circumstances, they might have become friends with the ruler of Great Aztlan, because, in essence, they were so similar... But such circumstances did not exist now, and none were foreseen.
  "And one more thing," Montezuma said slowly. "Judging by the genetic analysis, this... man," he nodded at the bones, "he is... my ancestor. Scientists claim that this is the founder of the ruling dynasty of the Great Aztlan."
  The cromlech looked silently and intently at the uey-tlatoani, bowed to him and allowed the guards to lead him away.
  Having finished writing the episode in the story where the young cannibal saves King Louis XIII on a hunt, Eugene stubbornly suppressed the thought that he was creating a new historical reality. He was so far from admitting his divine abilities...
  Delgado had told him something similar in that dream—not the dream in the barn. At first, Evgeny was inclined to believe he was the victim of a hallucination brought on by nervous tension and the unknown drug he'd been poisoned with. And now all those reassuring thoughts were shattered by the ancient skeleton.
  Tired of puzzling over this incarnation of Schrödinger's Cat, Kromlech pulled the last printed sheet from the typewriter, placed it on top of the stack of those written today, and, fully dressed, stretched out on the low cot. A guard would take the stack that night, but in the morning everything would be returned—presumably after copying.
  But sleep wouldn't come—his brain continued to try to construct a logical explanation for the paradox. Even an improbable one. The fact that his body was identical to that of a man who had died nearly fourteen centuries earlier confronted him with a disconcerting conclusion: his work was based not on fantasy, but on the ghostly memories left over from his other self—the man whose bones he was gazing upon...
  But how can this be?!
  “Cyclic personality,” a vaguely familiar voice said above him.
  Kromlech opened his eyes and saw a vague silhouette in the darkness. A guard? But why hadn't he heard him enter? And why was he speaking Russian?
  Evgeny also recognized his native language visually: the alien's words appeared in the air before him. History repeated itself.
  It was a dream, but Cromlech already knew that dreams of this kind were quite dangerous. So he braced himself and sat up on his bed.
  "What does this mean?" he asked the shadowy figure.
  Needless to say, his words also hung in the air.
  "Human beings, connected by a flow of homogeneous energy," the alien's voice was deceptively soft and ingratiating, and Evgeny had heard it somewhere before. "Like energy clusters. Or beads. We're not talking about reincarnation, but a single personality, scattered across time and space."
  The speaker approached unnoticed, and Eugene realized that this was the same man in the skull mask who had accompanied the Huey-tlatoani.
  "Who are you?" asked Cromlech.
  “Cihuacoatl,” he replied.
  The all-powerful "grey eminence" of the Great Aztlan, the high priest, the "shadow of the tlatoani," practically a viceroy. And the true leader of the jaguars...
  "Nika!"
  "I see you intend to kill me," a caustic voice came from under the mask. "Don't do it, Kromlekh-tsin. Firstly, then you won't know what happens next in this story. And secondly, aren't you ashamed to kill an old acquaintance?"
  The night visitor removed his mask and Evgeny froze, recognizing the face of Antonio Delgado.
   30
  
  Ilona Linkova. Great Aztlan, the Old Capital (Chichen Itza). September 20, 1980 (12.18.7.4.18, and 13 Etznab, and 1 Chen)
  In Aztlan the Great, the name Chichen Itza was disliked, usually referring to this ancient city as the Old Capital. Unlike the Toltecs who invaded Mayapan during the Dark Ages, initially destroying Mayan cities, killing their inhabitants, and burning manuscripts to erase the memory of the Mayan empire, the Aztecs traced their ruling dynasty directly to Kukulkan-Quetzalcoatl himself. Accordingly, Mayapan was considered the forerunner of Aztlan in official historiography. However, until now, they preferred not to emphasize the fact that the Nahua people were not the ones who founded the ancient empire. Moreover, the ethnonym Itza discouraged much publicity about the city's ancient name—this Mayan tribe had particularly long and stubbornly resisted the Aztecs.
  But for all Maya, the city remained Chichen Itza, the capital of the Feathered Serpent, the Greatest One Who Will Return. Indeed, the entire region remained a constant headache for any government in Tenochtitlan. The Maya, divided into various, often feuding clans, remembering ancient feuds between city-states dating back to the days before Kukulkan, shared a dislike for the Nahua empire, sometimes even openly hostile. This, incidentally, was also the reason for the widespread dissidence among the Aztlan creative elite, which included more than its share of ethnic Maya.
  In the eastern provinces of Great Aztlan inhabited by them, conspiracies and anti-government movements constantly arose. These were harshly suppressed by Tenochtitlan, but they resurfaced again and again, and the jungles were perpetual hotbeds of guerrilla warfare. Although Chan Balam, the rebel capital, was captured and razed to the ground at the beginning of the century, and the three Talking Crosses were demonstratively burned, their cult lived on. Now, according to the Crusob, the magical crosses could appear and begin prophesying anywhere.
  Russian Imperial intelligence had repeatedly exploited the Mayans' perpetual sedition, stemming from their historical memory of past greatness. They did so again.
  Stolyarov's sabotage and reconnaissance group hid in the northwest of the city, in poor neighborhoods populated by the descendants of slaves—Aztlan's most volatile contingent, a volatile racial mix of Atlanteans and white and black slaves brought from overseas to work on plantations. Gang leaders and priests of strange, syncretic cults reigned supreme here. In this labyrinth of narrow streets lined with squalid shacks and crumbling apartment buildings, no one paid any attention to the few people who had settled in a small house on the outskirts. Who knows what they were up to—smugglers, perhaps? If they lived there, it meant they had permission from the local authorities, and ordinary citizens shouldn't meddle in it—unless they wanted to be found with their throats slit.
  The authorities were indeed aware of this and also thought they were dealing with smugglers. A couple of the most influential, at least, were in contact with them. Chan Kochua. The local criminal underworld had long-standing close business relationships with the rebel Cruzobs; all arms and equipment shipments to the jungle passed through these outlying areas of Yucatán cities. Of course, hiding a sabotage and reconnaissance group from Russian Atlantis there, sent through Cuba, would have been incredibly risky. But that's exactly what this entire operation was.
  They had been holed up in this hut for four days now, having entered the city stealthily through the forests, of which there were still plenty left in Yucatán. Chan's men had already delivered enough provisions to feed three men and two women for several days. Now they were idle and anxiously waiting.
  Going outside was only permitted at night. The men spent their days playing cards dismally, while Ilona and Lenmena bickered. However, even this amusement was curtailed: when they raised their voices dangerously at each other, and Lenmena even laid her hand on her tomahawk, Stolyarov glared at the ladies so fiercely that they immediately stopped talking and retreated to different corners, continuing to exchange furious glances. On missions, the colonel was anything but gentle and lenient, and would stop at nothing to maintain discipline in the group.
  At first, Ilona wasn't quite sure why she was so angry with the Mohican. It had started in Tamantsev's office, continued in Roslavl, and at the secret training camp in Cuba where their group was transferred, and now here. At first, the girl thought she was simply fed up with the Indian woman's snide remarks directed at her. And also with the undisguised admiration with which she mentioned the Cromlech.
  As it turns out, the young Russian officer left behind vivid memories of the Atlantic Front. At least among those connected to the army and intelligence. The Atlanteans were generally characterized by a keen attention to individuality; they usually knew not only their own most outstanding warriors but also those of the enemy. They still preserved songs glorifying the exploits of heroes. They sang, among other things, about the Great Serpent, as they called the Cromlech.
  In any case, whenever Lenmena recalled the subject of the operation, her eyes lit up. There was no doubt she was head over heels in love and jealous of his relationship with Ilona. And for Ilona, the Mohican girl's condition was obvious—because she herself was jealous... At some point, she admitted to herself that she had fallen in love with the middle-aged writer... perhaps not at first sight, but certainly from that tragic scene on the black beach in the moonlight, when she witnessed death and killed herself.
  However, the rivals were smart enough to rein in their emotions. They only spilled over slightly during these days of waiting. The thing was, Ilona had a very specific role: she would establish contact with the target when the rescuers reached him. Kromlech, of course, was a war hero and a trained man, but that was a long time ago. And now he was a prisoner of the Aztlans, renowned for their ability to break people's psyches. And who knew what would come into his head and how he would react when he saw the sabotage and reconnaissance group fight its way through... So Ilona would be useful here. This greatly displeased Lenmene, who never missed an opportunity to make a barbary remark about it. Like any squaw, she had a sharp tongue.
  Ilona's second role in the group was communication with the mainland. Consequently, she had to carry the radio throughout the arduous journey through the jungle. As expected, everyone in the group had their own specialty. Stolyarov, in addition to being the group's commander, took on the duties of demolition expert and looked after the explosives supply. Lieutenant Mikhail Tyukalov carried the RPG and ammunition, though he was actually a champion combat sambo fighter and an excellent knife-wielder. And Sergeant Major Konstantin Lelekai was a sniper. A very good sniper—obviously, the genes of their ancestors, warlike Chukchi hunters, were at work. The laughter-loving Mishka Tyukalov, who had rudely flirted with Ilona back in Cuba, once whispered to her what Kostya's last name meant in Chukchi. She blushed deeply but giggled—the translation was quite inappropriate. However, Konstantin always remained imperturbably polite, even if they transparently hinted to him about the curse of his family name.
  Lenmena was also a sniper. She was also responsible for contacts with the locals, as she spoke several languages spoken on the continent, including Nahua, Quiche, and Yucateca. While everyone could tell from her appearance that she was from the north, Aztlán was full of people from Northern Atlantis.
  But most importantly, all the group members—except perhaps Ilona—were proven and tough fighters, accustomed to bloodshed. Their own and that of others. Because their plan involved intense combat and copious bloodshed.
  In fact, it was downright suicidal. Apparently, the command saw no other options. Or perhaps they were pressed for time. The information Kromlech might have possessed was invaluable in the days when the world stood on the brink of the most terrible war in history.
  So this plan better work. Even if most of the group doesn't return from the mission.
  But this could only happen if Chan Cochua didn't fail. Ilona, of course, knew this name, surrounded by countless myths, but she first saw someone bearing it only at a training camp on a small island in the underbelly of Cuba, quite close to the Yucatan. It was called the Isle of Pines and belonged to the Cuban armed forces. They said it was the very island described in Stevenson's famous novel. Ilona, of course, couldn't care less now—maybe later at home she'd open the book she'd read as a child and compare the description of the treasure island with her own memories. If she returned home... And if she wanted to remember it.
  Her days on the island were filled with rigorous training. Shooting drills, hand-to-hand combat exercises led by Tyukalov, forced marches with full gear through the forest, swamps, and small local mountains, rehearsals for storming a fortified facility and exfiltrating a freed prisoner. The group's fighters, with the exception of Stolyarov, were only privy to the general outline of the operation plan. They learned more when Chan showed up at the camp.
  "Good luck, comrades!" he exclaimed, bursting into the barracks where the group lived and greeting them with a raised fist.
  “Gentlemen, this is Chan Kochua, our ally,” the commander introduced him.
  Ilona had seen Chan's famous photograph a thousand times—his slightly slanted eyes glowing beneath his jauntily cocked beret and thick eyebrows. The rest of his features were obscured by a black mask with a hole for his mouth, from which protruded a perpetual cigar. Without the mask, he looked like a typical, unremarkable mixed-race man in a rumpled paramilitary uniform with a machete at his belt. He had shiny dark skin, a sparse beard and mustache, and a long, untrimmed, somewhat dirty head of hair. He did, however, have a cigar, and he smoked it passionately. When he got closer, Ilona realized he reeked of more than just tobacco smoke. It looked like he hadn't washed in ages.
  “We will work with his people,” Stolyarov said.
  Despite the persecution of socialists in the Russian Empire, imperial intelligence abroad played games with leftist movements hostile to Aztlán. This was true in Cuba, where, after a protracted guerrilla war, the descendants of white and black slaves overthrew the government of the Grand Aztlán's protégé two decades ago, turning the country into an economic appendage of its powerful western neighbor. Because of this, the island has remained under a strict blockade from the mainland, receiving support from Russia and its North Atlantic allies.
  As for Chan Cochua, he first came to light during the Cuban Revolution. The world's media speculated on the identity of this mysterious, masked ally of rebel leader Fidel Castro. His identity—though not his face—was revealed many years later. Like Fidel himself and his predecessor, Hernán Cortés, who declared Cuba's independence from Aztlán, Chan was a descendant of slaves brought from the Pyrenees. However, only on his mother's side; on his father's side, his ancestors were the Cruzob Maya, adherents of the Talking Cross cult, who fought the Hueytlatoani army for nearly a century. Chan's father, a descendant of the local Xalach-Vinic dynasty and a Cruzob political and religious leader, had formally ended the war forty-five years earlier by signing a peace treaty with Tenochtitlan. But the territory in the Yucatán jungles beyond his control still existed.
  In recent decades, the Cruzob nationalists, like the Cuban revolutionaries, have embraced Marxist ideas, bizarrely incorporating them into their cults of ancestral spirits and forest demons. At the same time, they considered themselves Christians—more in defiance of the official ideology of Aztlán, which forbade Christianity.
  After returning from Cuba, Chan assumed a key role in the Cruzób leadership, becoming tata nohoch sul, the "father of espionage," head of intelligence and diplomacy. He broke the treaty with the government, and the war resumed, although both sides were only conducting small-scale operations. However, Chan mastered the information weapon, constantly giving interviews to journalists from all over the world. His mask and cigar were regularly featured in newspapers around the world.
  However, he was indeed a skilled partisan who carried out dozens of daring operations. And, as it turned out, a long-time secret ally of Russia.
  “You are behind us,” he said, using the strange old saying “crusob,” sat down and began to puff desperately on his cigar.
  What followed was a very businesslike discussion of the details of the operation.
  The Crusobs had been preparing for a general Mayan uprising for over a year. Initially, it was scheduled for November 1st—the Day of the Dead. But Russian intelligence insisted on starting earlier—September 23rd according to the European calendar, the Day of the Descent of the Feathered Serpent. At first, Ilona didn't understand what Yucatan had to do with it—she thought they were supposed to work in Tenochtitlan. But Stolyarov explained:
  — The object was transferred to Chichen Itza and is being kept in the Palace of Kukulkan.
  Ilona shuddered—this was the first news that Yevgeny was alive. All the world's media outlets were vying with each other to report the mysterious disappearance of the famous Russian writer on Fortuna, but few suspected he had been kidnapped by the Aztlans. Imperial intelligence, meanwhile, received only the most meager scraps of information from its agents.
  "Our agent in Tenochtitlan couldn't find out the details," Stolyarov continued. "All we know is that it was Montezuma's personal order."
  The group will secretly disembark from a fishing boat on the deserted western coast of Yuacatán, march through the jungle, partly on foot and partly in transport provided by the Crusob, and hide in the city. On the day of the attack, they will be transported in a van, along with all their equipment, to the center of the Old Capital, where by this time an exalted crowd of Mayans and tourists from all over the world will have gathered to witness the descent of the Serpent from the Pyramid of Kukulkan. The crowd will include numerous Crusob agents who, upon the signal to advance, will lead the crowd against the Aztlan soldiers.
  In the ensuing bloody chaos, the group attacks the ancient palace where the prisoner is being held, frees him, and retreats back into the jungle.
  "Unfortunately, our agents and the Crusob people at Chichen Itza were unable to determine the precise location of the object in the palace," Stolyarov added. "We'll have to figure it out as we go."
  "There's too much to do along the way," Ilona thought anxiously, seeing huge holes in the plan. She had no doubt the other members of the group had seen them too, not to mention Stolyarov. But everyone remained silent. Only Chan declared pompously:
  — To achieve much, we must lose everything.
  As Ilona had already realized, he was prone to philosophizing and slogans, not only in front of journalists.
  "Do you guarantee a mass uprising of your people at the right moment?" Stolyarov turned to him.
  "No need to worry," the Crusob said with hidden arrogance. "We'll do what we must. You do yours. I've dreamed of this day since my father was alive. I won't let mine slip away."
  He blew another ring of cigar smoke and concluded:
  — Your Great Leo said: "Passionaries strive to change their surroundings and are capable of doing so." Maya are passionaries!
  “It seems Lev Nikolaevich didn’t say that about the Maya,” Ilona thought, and suddenly remembered that Kromlekh was acquainted with and, they say, even friends with the famous ethnologist, who was much more famous than his poet parents.
  However, there was something in Chan's words about the Maya. Ilona suddenly recalled a shocking incident: when they were walking through the twilight Yucatan forests, accompanied by a detachment of Crusobs. Suddenly, a wall of fire appeared before them. But before they could all flee in terror, it formed into three ghostly, flaming crosses.
  And a voice came - a voice from nowhere.
  The sabotage and reconnaissance group reflexively dropped to their knees, weapons aimed at the apparition. But the Krusob, led by Chan, dropped to their knees and listened to a voice speaking in a local dialect that Ilona barely understood.
  The crosses disappeared a few seconds later, just as suddenly as they had appeared. As if nothing had happened, the Mayans rose from their knees and called to their allies to continue on their way.
  "What was that?" Ilona Stolyarova asked quietly at a rest stop.
  He shrugged.
  "Who knows... It could be a trick or hypnosis. But they've been leading people this way for over a hundred years. So let it be."
  - What did the voice say?
  “Do what you must and don’t expect joy,” the commander replied.
   31
  
  Evgeniy Cromlech. Great Aztlan, Old Capital (Chichen Itza). September 23, 1980 (12.18.7.5.1, and 3 Imish, and 4 Chen)
  Evgeny was very tired and wanted it all to be over. For over a month, he'd been trapped in the ancient palace of the rulers of Chichen Itza, where he'd been sent the night after his encounter with the Cihuacoatl. Then they'd told him to pack, bundled him into a car, driven him to the airfield, and loaded him onto a plane, once again occupied by only himself and his guards. A two-hour flight over the Gulf of Mexico, then another short car ride, accompanied by silent, armed Aztlans—and since then, he hadn't left that bulky, gloomy, blood-red building.
  In fact, besides keeping him confined, not even allowed onto the landing in front of the palace's upper chamber—where the halach-vinik once resided—they treated him with utmost respect. They bathed him, anointed him with fragrant oils, dressed him in the luxurious traditional robes of an Aztlan nobleman, which were changed daily, fed him sumptuous dishes, treated him to exquisite drinks, and in the evenings, arranged concerts of national music and dance for him.
  True, he soon noticed himself falling into a strange, half-asleep, half-ecstatic state, and suspected he was being drugged. After several days of experimentation, he realized the potion was most likely contained in balcha—a kind of strong mead, quite disgusting in taste. From then on, he merely pretended to drink it, discreetly pouring out the cup, and his psychological state returned to normal. In general, he tried to consume as few alcoholic beverages as possible, relying more on various types of cocoa.
  He also, much to the dismay of his jailers, stubbornly refused to spend every night with a new "wife." These were very young women, representatives of all the peoples of Great Aztlan—also elegantly dressed, anointed with perfumes, and adorned with jewelry. It wasn't that Cromlech was particularly morally stable or had firmly resolved to remain faithful to the late Monica. In fact, at times he considered throwing everything away and spending his final days in hedonistic pleasures. However, he quickly pulled himself together. Alcohol, drugs, sex—all of these things relaxed the soul and body, and he wanted to be in good shape on the big day. After all, he knew how this life of luxury would end...
  And he needed clear thinking to reflect on what he had learned from the Cihuacoatl - Delgado.
  Besides, the girls were probably ordered to spy on him. And deep down, he knew that even if he became intimate with them, only one woman would introduce herself to him. Ilona...
  So Delgado occupied his thoughts, and Ilona his feelings, and the jailers reluctantly stopped bringing him dressed-up and fragrant women.
  Cromlech's intense thoughts were interrupted by finishing a story about a Brazilian cannibal and the royal page, Pirahua. He was allowed to take the unfinished manuscript and typewriter with him from Tenochtitlan. But when he finished writing, everything was taken away and never returned. Evgeny sometimes wondered in what secret Aztlan archives his final work would disappear.
  Delgado explained the situation: no one was going to let him go alive; the only question was how to kill him. However, the Cihuacoatl had his own plans, and his opinion carried considerable weight.
  "But how can you be the second-in-command in the empire? You're from Eastern Aztlan..." Evgeny asked him that night, recovering from the unexpected arrival of his guest.
  He'd become accustomed to miracles lately. He didn't even pay attention to the words floating in the air anymore—he understood he was in a special state, neither a dream nor reality.
  Delgado laughed, dryly and ironically.
  "Kromlech-tzin, I think you've already realized that the seers' power is great. Yes, our teachings are forbidden here, but they permeate all of society, from the very bottom to, as you see, the very top. As for me, since beholding the face of a Cihuacoatl is forbidden by the gods, I have considerable freedom of action. Hueytlatoani sometimes suspects something is wrong, but he is as much a slave to tradition as anyone else—everyone except us. Besides, as I told you the last time we met, I can, through my duplicates, be in many places at once."
  Evgeny remembered the infernal barn, the moonlight shining through the cracks, the smell of straw and that mocking voice.
  “Wait,” he said, “during that meeting you said that the Cihuacoatl had nothing to do with it...”
  Antonio held up his palms in protest.
  "Now, now, Don Eugenio, I told you I was hunting you. And every hunter is a liar."
  “And a scoundrel,” added Cromlech, looking heavily at his interlocutor.
  "We don't have time to sort things out," Delgado said coldly. "Yes, you're a difficult beast, Kromlekh-tzin. You always needed a nudge in the right direction, and even then you're always making some unexpected pirouettes. Like your alliance with that girl... Or the Mohican. Incidentally, here's a man who misused his nagual..."
  Kromlech had no idea what he was talking about. He was weighing his options for attacking and killing the man standing before him. But he was clearly on guard.
  "Don't try, don Eugenio," he said, stepping back slightly. "You won't catch me off guard like you did during our explanation in the jungle. I had no idea then that you were capable of spontaneously emitting the nagual—even the most powerful sorcerers require considerable practice to master this art. I confess, you finished me off then, but since you immediately finished off that world as well, nothing fatal happened—I simply ended up here."
  Cromlech became interested, temporarily putting aside thoughts of attack.
  — What are you talking about?
  "I don't know," Delgado shrugged. "It's a strange feeling—I seem to remember it clearly, and yet I know it's never happened to me before. A kind of déjà vu. It happens when the memories of the personalities of your cyclic being pass from 'bead' to 'bead.' Or when you perceive the experience gained by a double. In short, I just know that you and I have met before in another world. Maybe in others too..."
  And somehow, Kromlech knew this too. He had a vision of grandiose, glittering beads in the cosmic void, against a backdrop of shimmering galaxies. Only each bead wasn't a human being, but... a planet. A civilization.
  “Communicating vessels,” the words arose in his head, and they were not human - it was an image of a completely different way of thinking.
  Evgeny shuddered and forced the vision away. No point in this now. He'd think about it later. If he lived.
  "So what do you really want from me?" he asked sullenly.
  "Exactly what I talked about last time," Antonio answered readily. "Your personality. Your entire..."
  - That is?
  Delgado thought for a moment and then spoke again:
  "Undoubtedly, you are precisely who we thought you were—the Passerby, the one my benefactor, the great Yaqui sorcerer-machiztli, spoke of. Undoubtedly, too, you have already succeeded at least once in bringing about radical changes in what the unseeing call 'reality.' This world is likely far more satisfying to us than the one you destroyed. But it is also certain that this reality, too, is far from fully satisfying our needs. Therefore, our plan of action was clear: find you, retrieve you, awaken your nagual. And finally, send you back through the rift between worlds.
  "Membrane! Nengo! Neon-goo!”
  Cromlech again suppressed his metaphysical memories.
  “I don’t understand how you intend to implement all these points,” he remarked hostilely.
  Delgado smiled with golden teeth.
  "Almost all of them have already been completed—except the last one. But even that, I assure you, won't be long in coming."
  - What does it mean?
  "Well, it seems to me you've become quite accustomed to our paradigm; it no longer frightens or surprises you. And you're clearly open to communicating with your other selves."
  "Let's assume so. But how are you going to make me do that reality-altering trick again? I have no idea how to do it myself. And I don't want to—I'm perfectly happy with this world..."
  "No, no, Don Eugenio," Antonio shook his finger. "He doesn't suit you at all, and you know it perfectly well. But even if he hadn't, you would have done it again. Because you simply have no other choice."
  The cromlech looked at him questioningly.
  "You see," Delgado explained kindly, "you won't get out of here alive."
  “So what, Newton’s binomial,” Evgeny said in Russian with dark irony.
  He had long since gotten used to the idea of his imminent death. What did he have to lose in this world? His son was dead, his wife too... His only relative was his cat, Aska, in Svyatoaleksandrovsk, but the poor creature was very old.
  And then there was Ilona - a fleeting, delightful vision, like a bird of paradise, which flashed at the end of his life and for a moment blossomed it with a premonition of new happiness.
  But where is she now?..
  "However, your death must benefit Great Aztlan," the cihuacoatl continued, ignoring his interlocutor's remark. "We discussed your fate in secret council. The majority agreed with the Hueytlatoani that you should be sacrificed. In the traditional way, which, as you know, means cutting out your heart on the teocalli with all the rites honoring the gods. The only disagreement was whether to do it secretly or demonstratively, before the eyes of the entire world, thereby proclaiming the return of our old, mighty, and bloody Great Aztlan, determined to take revenge for its defeat in the Great War."
  Kromlech went cold, although what was said did not surprise him too much - he had expected something like this.
  “Do whatever you want,” he said.
  "But in the end, the council agreed with me," Delgado continued. "I insisted on a more, I hope, humane, sacrifice. You will be drowned."
  “Thank you,” Evgeny bowed sarcastically.
  "You're welcome," Antonio bowed back. "For me, as a statesman of the Great Aztlan, this is politically expedient, since I hope it will please our restless subjects in Yucatan. But the Cihuacoatl, like the Hueytlatoani, is merely a petty tyrant; this affliction is easy for you to overcome. But me, as a seer, will be more difficult to circumvent. I, a sorcerer, require this sacrifice because it signifies the solution to the main problem... In short, you will be sent to Chichen Itza and, on the day of Kukulkan's descent, thrown into the Sacred Cenote as a sacrifice to the Mayan rain god Chac, with whom, as is well known, Kukulkan is also associated.
  Cromlech's heart sank with a profound premonition, not at the prospect of drowning, but at these names and titles. But he still asked:
  - And how will this help you?
  "There's a rift between worlds in that cenote," Delgado explained unexpectedly dryly. "Don't ask me how I know. I don't know. But it's there."
  Kromlech had no answer—he somehow knew it himself. So he remained silent. Delgado continued speaking.
  "I don't know how you'll pass through the crack. Undoubtedly, for everyone else, even for most seers, this act means death. However, as a Passerby, you therefore fully possess what we sorcerers call the 'third attention'—the ability of a being to remain self-aware even after death. In this way, you evoke within yourself a 'fire from within'—an energetic conflagration in which your personality burns without being consumed. Through this, you will escape the Eagle..."
  "The eagle?" Cromlech asked.
  "That—for lack of a more adequate definition—is what we call the unknown force that stands beyond existence and rules the fate of all beings. After the death of any one of them, the Eagle devours them—figuratively, of course. That's how it feeds, I suppose... But only a few people are able to free themselves from this. You've already done it, at least once. What's surprising is that success requires extensive preparation, which you didn't have."
  “Okay, let’s assume so,” Evgeny nodded. “And then what?”
  — And then what you have already done: obviously, you will find yourself in the distant past and change reality.
  "But, according to you, I've already done this," Cromlech objected. "Why repeat it?"
  "Because the world is cyclical," Delgado said. "Eternally cyclical. To follow the warrior's path is to embark on an endless, closed path, to fall into some kind of cosmic loop. Both you and I are forced to follow what is predestined."
  The cromlech felt sad again.
  "And what if I can't?" he asked quietly. "And this... Eagle of yours will eat me?"
  "Then so be it," Delgado nodded. "A warrior never expects results from his actions. For him, victory and defeat are one and the same. Just like life and death."
  Evgeny remained silent again, sensing the leaden truth in these words.
  Antonio spoke again, his tone more casual, yet tinged with tension. Even his words, as they floated in the air, seemed to take on a reddish tint and vibrate slightly.
  "You see, we're not at all happy with many of the realities of this world. Specifically, some of the major political entities in Eurasia. Or the Russian Empire's penetration of Atlantis. But these are all minor details that I only recalled in my guise as a Cihuacoatl. Something else is more significant."
  He took a step towards Evgeny and poked him in the chest with his finger, at the cross hanging on it.
  "It was I who insisted that you keep it," he said coldly. "Because you have to take it off yourself. Not even physically..."
  Cromlech shrugged.
  “I was baptized in the Orthodox Church, and although I haven’t been to church for a long time, I don’t intend to take off my cross.
  The cross had been placed on him in the Dormition Cathedral in Yeniseisk half a century ago, and the icon of the Mother of God hanging nearby was from his late mother. It never occurred to Yevgeny to remove it, although he was more of a nominal Christian.
  Delgado winced.
  "I already said—not physically... I don't think it will survive physically with you... on the other side. You see, this curious teaching is hindering us. There is an opinion—and it is substantiated by many of our historians—that Aztlan was unable to conquer the entire world precisely because of the opposition of Christianity. But only seers know for sure why Christianity proved stronger. The Aztlanians surpassed all their opponents in military skill and weaponry, but their priests and magicians in Europe were unable to overcome what the seers there call the egregore. With Christians, it unexpectedly proved impenetrable. So the Atlantean advance stalled precisely in Europe.
  Cromlech had indeed encountered similar arguments in Aztlan books on history and philosophy, but this was the first time he had encountered an explanation from the point of view of magic.
  "Why do you need the whole world?" he asked.
  "Everyone wants the whole world," Delgado chuckled unpleasantly. "Seers, like other living beings, have a reproductive instinct, though it manifests itself mostly in spiritual forms. We desire and strive to instill our nagual in as many people as possible. And a world politically conquered by Atlantis is best suited for this. I don't know what the world was like before Cromlech the First changed it. Perhaps it was like the one in your novel, but then I wouldn't want to live in it."
  "And I?" thought Cromlech. "If I wrote this, it means my soul yearned for it. Although there's much about that world I created that shocks and horrifies me. Or is the novel simply an echo of the memories of my first draft? And will Cromlech the Third remember what Cromlech the Second is experiencing now?"
  It seemed he had already fully internally agreed to fulfill the will of the seers. What choice did he have? After all, this is his path...
  Delgado seemed to guess what his interlocutor was thinking, or perhaps even knew it. In any case, he smiled contentedly and began to speak:
  "I don't know how many cycles you'll have to go through to alter reality, but I hope it will ultimately lead to the complete disappearance of Christianity. Or, at the very least, its reduction to an insignificant, little-known sect. Believe me, my friend, that's a goal worth striving for..."
  His eyes suddenly flashed green, like a jaguar's.
  "Are you saying I'm doomed to wander the loop forever?" Kromlech asked, slightly confused. "This is some kind of sick game..."
  "No, no," the mage raised a warning finger. "You are a warrior, which means you can stop the world."
  - What?
  "We also call this 'blocking the first attention,'" Antonio explained. "It's when a seer reaches a state where they can stop the constant flow of internal sensory interpretations of the surrounding reality. They stop the inner chatter, as my benefactor used to say. He was a simple man, albeit a great magician... In short, stopping the world is an important stage on the warrior's path, which allows them to contemplate pure energy. But you're not just a warrior; you're a Passerby. Therefore, by stopping your internal monologue, you simultaneously stop the flow of events in the so-called real world, in which you navigate, despite the fact that you, to some extent, create it yourself."
  "And then what?" asked the interested Cromlech.
  "I have no idea," Delgado shrugged. "Perhaps you'll become the greatest mage in human history. Figuratively speaking, a huge jeweled pendant completing the necklace of your cyclical personality. I don't know. The important thing is that it will be a world of magic and a world for mages. Who, together, might even be able to overcome death and make the Eagle die of starvation... We'll see."
  Evgeniy didn’t know what to answer.
  "Don't grieve for this world you're leaving behind, Don Eugenio," Delgado grinned at him. "It will soon perish anyway."
  And he himself vanished, leaving only a final phrase in the air, which gradually also faded away. Then Kromlech awoke on his prison bed.
  Now, deprived of the opportunity to write, he sorted through the knots of this conversation in his memory, like beads of a rosary, trying to find the elusive meaning.
  He did this too that morning, when the sound of guards’ feet was heard behind the heavy doors at an inopportune hour.
  Several gloomy jaguars in ceremonial armor burst into the room.
  "Kromlech-cin," their leader addressed him. "It's time for you to go. The Feathered Serpent awaits."
  
   A draft rescript from the Hueytlatoani of Montezuma VII, the Great Aztlan, regarding the beginning of the war with the Russian Empire. It was never made public. The document contains handwritten comments from the Hueytlatoani himself, apparently intended for the Cihuacoatl. These are in italics.
  “Thus said the son of the Sun and the Earth, the greatest of men, the great ruler Montezuma-tzin the Seventh, huey-tlatoani and head of the warriors of the Great Aztlan.
  In the name of Huitzilopochtli, Quetzalcoatl, Tezcatlipoca, Tlaloc, Mixcoatl and all our gods, merged in the One Tloquenahuac [ beautiful formulation! ], I address you from the Throne of the Eagle and the Jaguar, O people of Aztlan! The spark that flew from the divine fire and was sown in our breasts will now blaze before you.
  The time has come for you to cast off this heavy burden and wash away the shame of defeat. The time has come for the Feathered Serpent to spread its wings [ less concentration on the Feathered Serpent is useless ].
  Thirty-five years have passed since our treacherous enemies descended upon us from the north and south [ in the name of the One, remove all references to Tawantinsuyu! The Incas must remain neutral, at least at first. Then we will deal with them. Eliminate all references to cardinal directions ], defeating us not with their skill and valor, but with numbers and cruelty. Our predecessor was forced to sign a shameful peace [ in the case of my father, soften it, but not too much, although he was forced into a hopeless situation ]. The enemies outraged our country, our community, our way of life, our faith, our divine ruler. Overseas barbarians, in alliance with northern traitors and southern envious people [ remove northern and southern! ] For a long time they mocked our house with impunity.
  This time of darkness has passed!
  The one Tloquenahuac, in his guise as the great god Huitzilopochtli, showed leniency and mercy to the Mexica and all the other peoples of our bountiful empire. By his favor, we acquired a miraculous weapon capable of wiping our enemies from the face of the earth, plunging their lands into purifying flames. Thus, our people are once again chosen to fight on the side of the good gods against the gods of chaos, restoring the world's original harmony.
  Today, I, the divine Way-Tlatoani, said, "Let it be!" and struck the shaft of my spear upon the floor of the House of War. Swarms of bombers have already taken off from our airfields, and at this very moment, the cities of the Russian Empire in Atlantis and Eurasia, as well as the cities of their unholy allies, are crumbling to dust along with all their inhabitants. Moscow, Svyatoalexandrovsk, Kyiv, Novoarkhangelsk, Roslavl, Texas, Manahatta, and others whose names symbolize our eternal enemy are no more. Simultaneously, our tank spearheads have invaded the borders of Russian Atlantis and Comancheria.
  In Europe, our offensive is supported by the army of our younger brother and faithful ally, Eastern Aztlan.
  To mark the beginning of this purifying war, we, inspired by divine inspiration, have decided to revive the ancient custom of our ancestors, which our enemies have forced us to forget for centuries. Today, on the great Teocalli of Huitzilopochtli in our capital, Tenochtitlan, over the tombs of our divine ancestors, the flower death will take place for the first time in many years. The enemy warrior and sorcerer, Eugene Cromlech, will surrender his precious eagle cactus fruit and, with its juice, will finally quench his thirst for the sun. Oh, truly, this long-awaited event will delight the gods who have given us an invincible weapon and will set the course of the universe right!
  [ You convinced the Council to hold a water ceremony in the Sacred Cenote of the Old Capital instead of a sacrifice in Tenochtitlan. So be it. Correct the text to say that a return to the ancient custom of the capital, Mayapan, will unite the peoples of our state in the face of the enemy. Well, you know how to present that... ]
  There is no doubt that the contented, sated gods will grant us victory and the world will belong to Aztlan, and the false gods will melt away in the blinding radiance of the One.
  Thus said we, Montezuma the Seventh, son of the gods, hueytlatoani and chief of the warriors of Great Aztlan.
   Tell me, am I doing the right thing? I must appease the spirit of my father, who bequeathed this to me. But what will victory cost us? And what will happen to the world after the war?
  Oh gods, my gods!..
  The Russians have a bomb, no doubt about it. Project Svarog. Malinalko learned about it only recently, when it was too late to stop it. The question is how many warheads they already have. They have plenty of long-range bombers... And I'm worried about the rumors about missile carriers that can be launched from ships and submarines. Although, that's probably disinformation. Our engineers are still a long way off that, although they are working on it, you know.
  It is much harder for me to start a war than for my father - at that time we were in alliance with Prussia and Japan, and Illinois and Bogota were neutral. Now the Germans and Japanese will remain on the sidelines, and the Illinois and Muisca will help the enemy.
  The Incas... Under my father, they vilely attacked when we were suffering defeat and seized our lands on the southern continent. What else can you expect from those filthy southerners... We've always fought them. But they shouldn't do this now—one doesn't attack the victors. And we will definitely win—immediately and completely.
  And we don’t know if the Incas are working on the Bomb...
  There are too many unknowns... But we have to start with this - otherwise we will be late and they will attack us.
  And I, as I told you, would have left Cromlech alive for now. After all, we still haven't fully figured out who he is. Or did you figure it out and not tell me? I know you're hiding a lot from me. And how could I not, if I've never seen you without your mask... I don't even know if you're one person or several.
  And to you, I'm just a petty tyrant. I know that, are you surprised?
  I'd like to talk to Cromlech some more; he interests me. I hate to kill him, but we'll soon kill so many people that one death won't matter anymore.
  Or will it be?..
  Oh gods, my gods!..
  Rewrite the rescript and send it to me for signature, and destroy the original with my edits."
  32
  
  Blagoy with Ezoeeveli. Egrossimoyon, about ten million Earth years ago
  More time passed before the pilgrims emerged from the great gorges onto a vast plateau. These were once the coastal lands of the Great Northern Ocean—the heart of the Solar Empire. Until now, the ruins of destroyed settlements were common here, with strange artifacts, petrified tree stumps, animal skeletons, and even Egrosi bones protruding from the sand. Decay was almost nonexistent here; entropy was slow. It was as if, having instantly destroyed all life on the planet's surface, the universe had calmed down and now only somberly contemplated the incorruptible relics of a lost civilization.
  The Grottoes' inhabitants disliked walking here. They were oppressed by the dead aura that permeated everything here. Like the endless howl of millions of living beings writhing in eternal torment—that's how they perceived the mental background of this place.
  So the squad turned left and walked across a flat, sand-covered plain, occasionally dotted with enormous, round meteorite craters. Before the Day of Wrath, it had been a shallow ocean bay. Earth and Mars were also united by the hydraulic nature of their civilizations—they had always been drawn to water reserves, which meant life and prosperity, and it was precisely from the need to develop them that the states emerged, culminating on Mars with the Fire Empire. However, even in those days, the amphibious Egrosi spent a significant portion of their lives in the waters of ponds, rivers, and canals, and in the Grottoes, they lived almost entirely in it. Therefore, their relationship to water was far more reverent than that of Earthlings—a reverential, mystical one.
  Now, as the pilgrims walked along the bottom of the former sea, over frost-covered sand, knowing that beneath the thick sediment lay ancient water, now ice as hard as diamonds, their state approached a state of rapturous enlightenment. They raced across the plain, their eyes fixed on the ground beneath their feet, as if hoping to discern the glimmer of a precious substance beneath the sand and stones.
  But not once did any of them look up—to see the stars and the planet's nimble satellites, and the distant Serene Maiden with her handmaiden. The Good One understood that this was fear—fear of the open heavens, a fear that had been ingrained in these beings since the Day of Wrath. The Egrosi no longer wanted to see the sky; it mortally terrified them. On the planet's surface, at the highest peaks, several telescopes were installed, manned by the same Iriasis-like death-combatants. But few, aside from a few officials and scientists appointed by the Council of Grots, were interested in the data these telescopes provided. And even less, save perhaps a few madmen, had ever conceived the idea of space travel—despite the Grots having the means to do so. Egrossimoion no longer had any interest in space.
  "Look," Leenmiin's call sounded in Kromlech's head. "Adelin-viiri!"
  Evgeny looked where the female was pointing and froze. In the distance, the plain abruptly transitioned into a raised region of mesas, and this in itself attracted an eye accustomed to flat surfaces. But the boulders looming on the horizon had unexpectedly regular shapes. Even the geometric rock layers of the Grand Canyon hadn't produced such an impression. And after a few seconds, it became clear that before them were ancient ruins, composed of enormous stone blocks.
  The cromlech knew they had come upon the ruins of a great ancient metropolis—the empire's capital and its largest port. But he was unprepared for the sheer size of these ruins! It was a remarkably linear cluster of massive pyramidal buildings, interspersed with several smaller pyramids and even smaller—but still enormous by Earth standards—cone-shaped structures. Temples, palaces, pools, fortifications, and residential buildings—a city stretching for many kilometers, dissected into sectors by straight streets and canals. And above it all, invisibly, hovered the motto of the vanished empire: "Hear the voice of Fire!"
  The structures, reduced to ruins millions of years ago, still stood out from the surrounding high hills. Evgeny vaguely recalled that four years before he left Earth and his time, the world's media had excitedly reported that an American spacecraft had photographed something resembling man-made objects on Mars. The cromlech, immersed in the world of the ancient Maya, hadn't paid much attention at the time. But now these "objects" were before him.
  In reverent silence the travelers entered the dead Adelin-viiri.
  To Evgeniy, it reminded him very much of the ruins of ancient Mexican cities, only four or five times larger. And there was no lush vegetation around here—only rock, sand, and the remains of dead trees. In the imperial era, Adelin-viiri was famous for its gardens and parks...
  Leaving their cars at the edge of the ruins, the pilgrims walked past ruined buildings, crossing half-buried canals where cool water once lapped. In this city, as in Venice, they largely served as streets, with crowds of Egrosi scurrying along them from one end of the metropolis to the other. Some rarely left them, resting comfortably at the very bottom, waking up and getting back to work. Now, in the sand, pilgrims sometimes stumbled upon their skulls, their sunken eye sockets staring wistfully out.
  On Earth, Kromlekh, a true humanist, hadn't been particularly keen on the exact sciences. But the Egrosi brain was several times larger than a human's and equipped with a far greater number of synapses. So now the Blessed One not only knew that every proportion of this vast city had been meticulously calculated. He also clearly saw in his mind's eye imaginary lines connecting man-made structures and natural features—cliffs, hills, and meteorite craters, gracefully inscribed by ancient architects into a sophisticated overall concept. These lines intertwined into a complex grid, illustrating the ancient Egrosi's understanding of their planet, its periods, and the surrounding cosmos.
  It was a very visible cosmogonic model of Mars and its place in the solar system before the Day of Wrath. It was also an observatory and sanctuary of the solar cult, at the center of which was the final destination of their pilgrimage, the great image of Aadi-Iassi, the Unifier, the Son of Adelinaam.
  As a historian, Cromlech was amazed by how well the Egrosi remembered their past—despite the vast depth of time, even by their standards, and the fact that surface archaeology was completely undeveloped in the Grottoes. Retrieving any objects from there was considered sacrilege, and the few who did were despised by all. Yet, the Grottoes knew perfectly well what had happened tens of millions of years ago. Any schoolchild could recount in detail the long, tragic, and glorious life of the first emperor to ascend the diamond throne in Adelin-viiri, his successes, tragedies, and cruelty, his campaigns of conquest, his victory over the kingdom of Griisiya, and the enormous memorial complex erected in memory of the fallen on the site of the final, most horrific battle. And of an even more majestic monument to the glory of the great ruler in the capital itself, which began to be built during his lifetime and was erected by several generations of rulers afterward until it attained its perfect form. And soon the Day of Wrath came.
  These ruins remained, preserving an ancient harmony—something like a planetary clock or a sextant. The shadows from the religious buildings and the carved rocks and hills fell on the structures symbolizing numerous festivals on different days of the year. On Earth, Stonehenge served a similar function, but compared to this city, the ancient British stone circle was like a country house in front of the Winter Palace.
  After passing through the city center, the pilgrims emerged onto a vast field, which in ancient times had served as a parade ground for crowds of Egrossimoa who gathered there during annual imperial celebrations—the summer and winter solstices, the New Year, and the Lord's Day. To the left, a massive, grim castle loomed, which in ancient times had defended the city from enemies from the sea. To the right, a high hill, on whose summit the ancients had sculpted one of Egrossimoa's satellites, which they depicted as a mischievous agri. And beyond, the Great Pyramid towered. It was several times taller than Khufu's pyramid and far more elongated, resembling a stone dagger aimed at the sky. It also differed from terrestrial pyramids in that it was pentagonal. Against the backdrop of the Martian landscape and the deathly sky, it gave the impression of a Chirico painting brought to life.
  Blagoy knew that tetrahedral pyramids also existed on the planet—for example, on the island of Griisiya. But pentahedrons were a purely imperial attribute. And the one they now contemplated, called the Finger of Egrossimoion, was the greatest. In ancient times, it served as the main gnomon—the "hand" of a sundial. At the winter solstice, its enormous shadow fell upon the Face, which slowly emerged from it, visibly revealing to the people the birth in the void of a new Adelinaam, merged with the image of the father of the Solar Empire.
  Of course, over the past hundreds of millennia, the position of the planet and its surroundings had changed so much that the clock had become "broken" and the precision of the shadows had been disrupted. But still, the stern Aadi-Iassi, half of whose face was depicted as a fleshless skull, gazed upon his father, Adelinaam, emitting an eternal thought-pleading: "My God! My God! Why have you punished us?"
  The pilgrims, their brightly colored ceremonial garments fluttering in the piercing wind and their tall ceremonial tiaras atop their armored spacesuits, paused. From here, the Face appeared to them as a broad, flat mound. The Emperor's face, in all its splendor, could only be seen by those rising above it. "They'll see it on Earth later, too," Cromlech suddenly recalled, recalling those sensational satellite photos, even though the "face of Mars" was then officially declared an optical illusion, pareidolia.
  But even the observers standing on the plain, contemplating the intricately jagged ridge of the mound, saw in it the clear profile of the Egrosi, albeit badly gnawed by time. "From the half-erased features a haughty flame shines, / A desire to force the whole world to serve itself," these earthly lines flashed in Evgeny's memory, strangely but remarkably true. His companions, expressing their reverent amazement with the expansive gestures customary among the Egrosi, grasped Blagoi's thought and froze, realizing its precise relevance to the moment.
  And then Kromlech heard a sound behind him... Or maybe it wasn't a sound, and it wasn't his hearing that was at work, but some other feeling that prompted him to turn around abruptly.
  It was... a barn. Of all the strange and wondrous things Blagoy had seen today, this sight had shocked him the most—an ordinary earthly barn, built on a stone foundation of large boulders and with plank walls punctuated by cracks. It looked quite old, and... familiar, very familiar, but Evgeny didn't have time to figure out why. And from its slightly open door, someone was clearly about to emerge...
  However, the vision immediately vanished, and Blagoy realized he had simply experienced a momentary hallucination. "First Shelley, now this... the Earth calls," he thought, yawning widely in amazement. But then his companions began the final stage of their pilgrimage, and Evgeny followed them, once again merging with the general aura of a mental psalm to Lord Adelinaam, his son Aadi-Iassi, and the spirits of this place.
  The latter, it seemed, was no mystical abstraction—for some time now, the Blessed One had sensed a strange interference in the communal prayer, growing more insistent with each step toward the Emperor's Face. Like an obsessive whisper in the head of a mentally ill person—indistinct at first, but soon acquiring the inexorable force of a command.
  "You have come... Come, come here... Come to us, be with us... We are waiting..."
  Somehow, Kromlech knew this whispered command was addressed specifically to him. His companions understood this too, and it seemed they even knew it was as it should be.
  Evgeniy felt terrified, he tried not to hear the whispers, but was unable to escape the general aura.
  Thus the pilgrims approached the mound and began to ascend it along a barely visible path, here and there lined with worn steps. Their path led to the very center of the Face—to the depression that marked the mouth of the sovereign. It was a roofless temple, beneath which lay the sarcophagus of Aadi-Iassi, carved from a single diamond meteorite, containing his mummy and all its treasures, in perfect peace. Had this been on Earth, the tomb would have been plundered tens of millions of years ago. But on Egrossimoion, such a thing was unthinkable.
  "Go... go," the disembodied voices continued to whisper. "You have come... You are ours... We will be together..."
  The group's egregor became so dense and powerful that one after another, the pilgrims lost their sense of self, dissolving into it. But the Cromlech still held firm—despite the increasingly insistent whispers and the fact that the silent prayer began to take on a cruel, aggressive tone. Evgeny realized with horror what was happening, but he lacked the willpower, was completely unable to resist what was about to happen.
  They descended into the temple's maw. It was a long chamber, a miniature canyon with steep walls. The dim light of the Martian day barely penetrated, but in its glow it was clear that the temple was almost empty. Only the mournful faces of the gods looked down from the walls, and in the center, where the living Egrosi's two languages—communicative and combative—stood, a short, forked column rose. For Egrosi culture, this was an overtly phallic symbol.
  Still caught in the grip of communal prayer, they surrounded the pillar—Kromlech knew it was an altar. And with a horrified yawn, he saw Leenmiin shed her clothes and begin unfastening the clasps of her spacesuit.
  With Leenmiin—the only one in the group—Evgeny developed something resembling a friendship. During rest stops, they often mentally chatted about all sorts of things. And all this time, she knew where she was going and how the Hajj would end for her—with the sacrificial stone... "Why?!" the Good One tried to ask her, but now her soul lived only within the egregor, and he couldn't reach her. And she didn't even turn her head in his direction.
  Once again, Kromlech thought that he would never understand the inner world of these creatures.
  "Adelinaam the god, Adelinaam the bright gaze, the blinding light, Adelinaam, our good killer, take blood, take flesh, take life!" a silent prayer pulsated in the eerie room.
  Eugene simultaneously perceived both her and the enveloping whispers of unknown creatures inhabiting this place from all sides:
  — You have come to us, the Good One has come, be with us, disembodied, another will come, there is peace here, stay here, there is no death, life is not life, death is not death, do not be afraid, join us...
  Now completely naked, Leenmiin, struggling to get air into her lungs, approached the altar and lowered her back onto its fork. Four pilgrims firmly grasped her arms, hind legs, and head, and pressed down, forcing the girl's body into an arch.
  The elderly priest leading the group raised a crescent axe with both hands and brought the massive blade down hard, severing the victim's ribcage. Its tail, which remained free, thrashed wildly.
  Ignoring this, the priest threw away the axe-knife, plunged both hands into the chest, pushing apart the fragments of bone and cut flesh, felt the heart and tore it out with force, causing a fountain of blood.
  The eerie telepathic scream of the murdered woman disappeared without a trace into the depths of the common prayer.
  "Leenmiin!" Kromlech shouted mentally.
  But she was no longer anywhere.
  The priest raised the dripping heart to the darkening heavens, and then solemnly walked along the walls, smearing the mournful faces of the gods with fresh blood under continuous silent prayer.
  And time seemed to stop. Evgeny suddenly broke free from his egregor of prayer to alien gods and saw that all the pilgrims had frozen in their places. The priest stood in an awkward pose, holding his heart in his hands. Drops of blood froze like rubies and hung in the air.
  But Evgeny himself was quite able to move and think.
  While he was pondering this strange effect, something stirred in the periphery of his vision. He glanced at it and froze, too, in horror. A bloodied, heartless Leenmiin was trying to rise from the altar.
  At first, the corpse simply swayed violently in the stone hollow, then, clumsily swaying from side to side, it broke free, and the deceased rose to her feet. A terrifying, seeping cavern gaped in the center of her chest.
  "But I wanted her," Blagoy thought, completely inappropriate under the circumstances. But he looked at the young girl's mutilated body and knew it was true...
  Meanwhile, the corpse began to approach the Cromlech with unsteady steps, but it still seemed unable to move. And everything around it remained frozen—only the dead body moved.
  “Tayishaish greets you, warrior,” said the creepy doll, coming close to Evgeny.
  He understood that this was indeed a doll - no longer Leenmiin, but a cadaver, driven by an alien, otherworldly force.
  The corpse mechanically opened its mouth, its tongue moving sluggishly. There was no attempt at mental contact, and when the Seelie attempted to make one, he recoiled, encountering icy darkness.
  The demon's words, of course, immediately appeared in the air.
  "Do you wish to die before birth?" the monster continued. "Then your path will end here, among us—brothers and sisters."
  "Among whom?" Kromlech asked sullenly, recovering from his horror and realizing that he had once again inadvertently crossed the line of reality.
  “You know,” Leenmiin answered.
  Or rather, Tayishaish... or Ish-Tab... or whoever she is...
  Her voice was creaky, and blood came out of the terrible wound on her chest with every sound she made.
  “It’s us,” the corpse continued to pronounce. “The same as you—whom the corruptible call the Passersby. We were revered here and there. But we no longer care for those here or there—let them fuss about in their own phantom lives. We are at peace here—where we forever think without bodies. Our journey is over. You will remain with us.”
  Kromlekh felt an irresistible weight in Tayishaish's words; he wanted to believe her, smile wearily, and surrender to eternal rest. He even reached for the clasp of his spacesuit. But then a thought occurred to him.
  - But you come to the Grottoes, to the living?
  “Okay,” Tayishaish nodded.
  - And it is you who will come to Earth, and they will call you Ish-Tab there?
  The demoness made a vague gesture.
  — Maybe. Someday. Or maybe it already happened. What difference does it make?
  — So, this is not the end yet?
  Tayishaish suddenly gave a dry laugh. This human laughter, coming from the mouth of a dead Egrosi, was utterly surreal.
  “However, during the time we haven’t met, you have become much less reckless, Blagoy-dio,” she said sarcastically after laughing.
  However, it wasn't her anymore—in place of the dead Leenmiin, Kromlech was confronted by... Heenaroo. He wasn't wearing a spacesuit, but, unlike his previous interlocutor, he transmitted his speech directly to Kromlech's brain. Which didn't stop his words from also floating in the air.
  "You're right," he continued, grinning. "Being disembodied doesn't free you from the tedious affairs of this world. And that means it's time for you to return to the tonal, Don Eugenio."
  Eugene shuddered.
  "Who are you? Who are you all?" he asked in a low voice.
  "You know," Heenaroo grinned, quite humanly. "We've already talked about this. Or we will again... A cyclical being—a rosary... perhaps a necklace. Many beads, but they are one."
  "And these?" Kromlech nodded his head vaguely to the side. "The disembodied..."
  "Well, yes, a necklace," Heenaroo said thoughtfully after a moment of silence. "With pendants. They're very beautiful, expensive, and look impressive. But only the string of beads in a necklace is functional; the pendants are just for show. So, those hovering on the surface of this planet are precisely the pendants of this single necklace. As for the ordinary beads, they still have work to do. In short, you'll still have time to rest among these beautiful rocks in incorporeal form. But for now, you must continue on your way."
  "To Earth?" asked Kromlech, even though he himself already understood that his life on Mars was coming to an end.
  Heenaro blinked his third eyelid.
  "Chichen Itza has been waiting for its Feathered Serpent," he confirmed. "Now you are sufficiently prepared for useful work in your small homeland."
  Egrosi played ironically with communicative language in front of Kromlech.
  "Are you wondering now how you'll get through Neon-goo without being in the Grottoes? Haven't you realized that underground waters aren't necessary for that? Moreover, you don't need old Ish-Tab as a psychopomp anymore. You can do it all yourself—here and now."
  Cromlech realized it was true. And having realized it, he did it.
  In the impenetrable darkness before him, a piercing crimson point appeared. He reached out to it with his whole being and sank into the blinding eternity of the blazing abyss of primordial chaos.
  33
  
  Ilona Linkova. Great Aztlan, Old Capital (Chichen Itza). September 23, 1980 (12.18.7.5.1, and 3 Imish, and 4 Chen)
  The square in front of the Kukulkan pyramid was packed. From the van, Ilona could see a dense crowd in a variety of attire, huddled in the relatively small space between the army-like colonnade of the ancient market near the Temple of the Warriors, the sacred ballgame arena, and the gloomy mausoleum of Topiltzin, the pyramid's builder. There were numerous tourists from all over the world, especially from both Atlantis. But the majority were locals. They stood out not only for their traditional dress, the colorful turbans of the women and the belts of the men, but also for their tense expressions. They didn't converse among themselves or hold their cameras at the ready. For them, the descent of the Feathered Serpent was not an idle spectacle, but a sacred rite.
  A cordon of Aztlan soldiers pushed the crowd away from the pyramid. Priests and their assistants bustled on the platform in front of the upper temple, performing the last rites before the mystical event. Stolyarov's group watched them tensely from a discreet food truck parked in a side alley. There were many of these here—resourceful Mayan merchants never missed an opportunity to boost their profits during the great festival.
  Chan, of course, had provided the van, the trading permit, and the parking space. Ilona thought she could make out the Krusob people—strong young men moving confidently through the crowd. Kochua was there too, disguised as a local farmer, or perhaps a tourist. But the main striking force of the rebellion was dispersed among similar vans, the courtyards of nearby houses, and other secluded spots—mobile, well-armed squads of trained fighters.
  The plan had to be urgently revised the day before—during a routine radio communication with the center, information was relayed that the object would be delivered to the plaza in front of the pyramid that morning. The Russian agent at Chichen Itza hadn't ascertained the purpose, but attacking the palace before the uprising would be suicidal madness, and recapturing the Cromlech en route to the plaza was impossible: it would be transported that short distance via underground passages that had, over the centuries, permeated the entire center of the Old Capital.
  So the only option left was to attack Cromlech's convoy at the moment the rebellion began, when the Aztlans' attention would be distracted.
  They, however, seemed to have sensed something, too—the drab faces of secret Jaguar agents flitted through the crowd, and numerous police patrols milled around the perimeter of the square. Some were checking vans parked in the alleys, but the Crusob agents had successfully diverted the police's attention from the one in which the group was hiding.
  Tension was mounting. Stolyarov, Ilona, and Tyukalov were in the van. According to Plan A, Tyukalov was supposed to destroy the palace entrance with an RPG after the group had breached the fence created by Stolyarov's explosives. Now they would have to operate amid the bloody chaos that would soon erupt. Lelekai and Lenmena's roles remained unchanged—they provided cover fire for the group and had already taken up their chosen positions on the roofs of two high-rises near the square. They communicated with the van via radio.
  The hour approached, and the crowd grew increasingly restless—like the sea before a storm. The clouds didn't obscure the scorching sun, meaning the Descent of the Serpent would appear in all its glory. But everyone in the square, even those uninitiated in the events that followed, sensed that something far more sensational would soon occur than the majestic, yet invariably occurring twice-yearly spectacle.
  At six o'clock in the evening, the priests froze. A few minutes remained before the Convergence—the sunlight was already beginning to play across the pyramid's balustrades. Several figures emerged from the temple onto the platform—from below, they looked like insects perched on a giant's head. Ilona trained her binoculars on them and barely suppressed a cry. Ahead stood the high priest of the One, and behind him... the Cromlech, held in place by two jaguar officers in archaic ceremonial robes. The girl recognized him immediately, even though he was naked and covered in blue paint. A victim! So that's what it was!
  “I see an object,” Lenmena’s muffled voice came over the radio, a terrible tension in it.
  "What are we going to do, First?" Tyukalov was Stolyarov's deputy, so he asked the question that was currently troubling everyone.
  None of them had any idea when the signal for the uprising would be given—in response to Stolyarov’s question, Chan shrugged his shoulders vaguely and said incomprehensibly:
  - They know when to appear...
  It was now obvious that "they" wouldn't appear until the sacrifice began. This meant the group had to begin action without waiting for the Crusobs, hoping they would arrive before the entire sabotage and reconnaissance group was wiped out.
  "Let's begin," Stolyarov said. "Lynx is working on the jaguars on the pyramid, Raven is covering her, Wolf and Weasel are with me."
  All members of the group had “animal” call signs, only Stolyarov was the First.
  “Yes,” came the call simultaneously from the van and from both sniper positions.
  “On my command,” said the commander.
  Tyukalov loaded the grenade launcher, Ilona adjusted the bag with spare rounds behind her back and got a better grip on the machine gun.
  Meanwhile, the high priest began a speech that was carried by loudspeakers throughout the square, and at his first words, Stolyarov ordered:
  - Stop it!
  "People of Great Aztlan," the servant of the One began, clearly delighted by the great role that had unexpectedly befallen him. "We have gathered here to greet the Feathered Serpent, who, as he has done on this day for hundreds of years, will now descend from his pyramid. But today, God will do so at a most significant hour for our country. Very soon, the divine Hueytlatoani's rescript will be read on national television and all radio stations, announcing the beginning of a new war with our old and sworn enemy—the Russian Empire, which for many years humiliated our proud people. A war that will undoubtedly be victorious, for the One has granted us a miraculous weapon that will wipe out all their cities and armies in an instant."
  A roar of jubilation, mixed with cries of horror, echoed across the square.
  “Idiots!.. He’s an idiot, he still decided to do this,” Stolyarov groaned.
  "What will happen, Nikolai Alekseevich?" Ilona asked, confused, having forgotten about the regulations.
  Stolyarov shrugged his shoulders wearily:
  “They’re probably already bombing our cities and have invaded Atlantis,” he said in a cracked voice. “That was their plan, which we intercepted, but we hoped they’d be afraid to carry it out. But these people are madmen! They’ll be routed on land—we and the Comanches have secretly amassed three tank armies and many other troops on the border. Our two squadrons will bombard their cities from the Atlantic and the Pacific Ocean. They still haven’t learned that we already have missiles... Waves of bombers from Siberia, Iroquoisia, and Russian Atlantis... Strikes from European bases on Eastern Aztlan... And most importantly, Tawantinsuyu will attack them, and the Incas also have a bomb. It’s a disaster.”
  His face turned grey.
  Ilona knew it was all true, a truth her commander had finally revealed. She had always suspected that, despite his low rank, Stolyarov was privy to many of the empire's strategic secrets. And his frank account testified that...
  “And we...” Stolyarov began, but fell silent.
  Meanwhile the priest continued:
  "To commemorate this, our emperor, the son of the gods, the greatest of men and the leader of all Aztlan warriors, has graciously permitted this war to begin with the sacrifice of our enemy—the enemy warrior, scribe, and sorcerer Eugenius Cromlech. He will now be solemnly delivered to the Sacred Cenote and cast there as a sacrifice to the Mayan gods—Chac and Kukulkan. May his life be delicious to them!"
  "Call off the attack," Stolyarov repeated over the radio, hearing this. "We're waiting for the cruiser to arrive according to the main plan."
  Ilona realized that the First had decided to continue the operation, which had been rendered pointless by the start of the war. What else could he do? She was perfectly happy with that—she wouldn't leave without Yevgeny anyway.
  The jaguars pushed the Cromlech forward so the people could see it. The square roared even louder, and immediately the Solar Serpent appeared. It was an optical effect of the shadows cast by the northwest corner of the structure, possible only on this day and hour. Seven triangles of light, formed by the steps, traced the curves of a huge, writhing serpent from the upper platform to the base of the pyramid, where the staircase ended in two sculpted heads of the Feathered Serpent with snarling jaws. The illusion of a gigantic, slithering reptile was so complete that Ilona felt a momentary surge of terror. And the crowd below simply fell into a stupor.
  But it seems that this was not the case for everyone - some were working hard.
  "Open the van!" came a sharp command in Nahua from outside.
  Looking through the crack, Ilona saw a policeman to whom the Kruzob, dressed as a merchant and guarding the van, was trying unsuccessfully to explain something.
  "Let me through!" the law enforcement officer finally barked, pushing the fake merchant aside and reaching for the door handle himself.
  "Wolf!" Stolyarov threw at Tyukalov.
  He put the grenade launcher aside and moved closer to the exit.
  The policeman poked his head inside, wearing his uniform beret, but didn't have time to see anything—while he was blinking after the bright sun, his neck was seized in a powerful grip. A loud snap was heard, drowned out by the roar outside. The policeman's body twitched, but then went limp, and Tyukalov dragged the corpse into the van.
  Stolyarov didn't even turn his head, staring intently at the pyramid through his binoculars. Ilona was looking in the same direction. The sight was stunning: the blue Cromlech, accompanied by priests, slowly walked down a long staircase. It was as if the Feathered Serpent were lowering it.
  "Kukulkan enters the water!" the priests howled in hoarse voices, followed by the entire crowd.
  At the base of the pyramid, the victim was awaited by a guard of Aztlan soldiers and an orchestra, which had already started playing exotic music.
  Behind the paint covering Evgeniy’s face, Ilona couldn’t see his expression, but for some reason she was sure that it was calm and detached.
  Only now did she notice that right behind the Cromlech walked a man in a long black robe and a skull mask. He appeared as if out of nowhere.
  "Who is this?" the girl thought. "Some kind of priest?"
  But she immediately forgot about it, because something much more grandiose happened than everything that had happened so far.
  The air in front of the pyramid seemed to ripple, then suddenly burst into a blinding flame. It soon formed into three enormous fiery crosses. A thunderous voice, similar to the one Ilona had heard while traversing the jungle, rang out from within. Only now did she almost fully understand the phrases, spoken this time in Quiche:
  — The times have come! The great sacrifice! The harvest! The reaping of the dead! Death! Death!
  Without a doubt, “they,” as Chan Kochua said, appeared in the most obvious way.
  Something unimaginable was unfolding in the square. Most of the people, especially tourists, were trying to flee with screams of terror. The soldiers in the cordon were confused, but still stood their ground. And it turned out there were far more crusades here than Ilona had thought—a veritable forest of machetes, furiously raised, had grown over the heads of the frenzied crowd. Insurgents from the alleys rushed to the aid of their comrades.
  The crosses disappeared and the ghostly flames died down, and the rebels rushed at the soldiers, cutting down anyone they could lay their hands on—policemen, tourists, merchants, even peaceful Mayan peasants who had no idea of the impending rebellion. The soldiers finally opened fire, and the bloody chaos that Chan Cochua had been aiming for descended upon the center of the Old Capital.
  Ilona knew that, under the cover of senseless massacre, Kruzob special forces units were now seizing key city hubs, attacking police stations and military installations. It had already begun—shots and explosions were heard from all corners of the city.
  The girl thought she saw Chan flitting through the crowd, wearing a beret and smoking a cigar, waving a bloody machete. It was just like him—he always wanted to ride the crest of a great wave...
  But now it's their turn.
  "We're working!" Stolyarov yelled, and the group burst out of the van.
  The soldiers retreated toward the pyramid, took cover, and fired back. The musicians and priests scattered in different directions, but the jaguars crowded around the Cromlech and the man in black, retreating, firing back with machine gun fire.
  A roar erupted from the sky, and a military helicopter hovered over the square, spraying the crowd with machine gun fire. The rebels scrambled for cover, firing indiscriminately upward.
  "Wolf, do it!" Stolyarov ordered.
  Tyukalov slung the RPG over his shoulder, crouched down, and began aiming, aligning it with the aircraft's trajectory. A shot rang out, and a fiery cloud, wreathed in smoke, blossomed near the helicopter. When it cleared, it became clear the helicopter was lurching to one side and flying away, rapidly approaching the ground. It had crashed somewhere in the northwestern neighborhoods where the sabotage and reconnaissance group had recently been hiding. A distant explosion echoed from there. The lieutenant calmly pulled a new grenade from his shoulder bag.
  But while he was loading, a policeman with an Atlatl appeared from around the corner. Stolyarov and Ilona simultaneously raised their weapons, Tyukalov tried to duck away from the line of fire, but it was futile. It would have been... The policeman's head, before he could pull the trigger, seemed to explode, spilling fragments of shattered brain matter. His body jerked and sprawled out on the ancient, dusty pavement, drenching it in dark blood.
  "Be careful out there," Kostya's voice came through the headphones. "You barely made it—the house's blocking your path."
  The Chukchi's voice was calm, as if he were lying on a comfortable sofa, absentmindedly watching the TV.
  Stolyarov cautiously peered around the corner, but immediately ducked back—a bullet had chipped the wall above his head. The square was now under fire from all sides and from above, from the high-rises where snipers from both sides had perched. Dozens of bloodied bodies lay strewn about, and several wounded tried to crawl away from the fire.
  Ilona was suddenly shocked by the thought that the same thing, only much worse, was already happening all over the world at that very moment.
  And the Feathered Serpent continued his majestic descent from his pyramid.
  Groups of rebels and soldiers dispersed into cover and engaged in a fierce firefight.
  "Who sees the object?" Stolyarov asked the snipers over the radio.
  “I am,” Lenmena answered. “They’re at the market.”
  “I see it too,” Lelekai responded.
  Indeed, the jaguars had fortified themselves among the colonnade on the opposite side of the square from the group, which was now impossible to pass through.
  “They must go to the Sacred Cenote to make a sacrifice,” Stolyarov said.
  This was indeed entirely in the Aztlan spirit - the world may go to hell, but the sacrifice promised to the gods must be made.
  "We'll go around to the left," the commander decided. "Raven, get down and wait for us at the stadium. Lynx is keeping watch. The rest of you, follow me."
  Ilona realized that Stolyarov intended to intercept Kromlekh on the Sacred Road leading to the cenote. The idea was logical: the road was bordered by the park's thickets—a patch of pristine jungle preserved in the city center. It would be an ideal ambush location.
  But they still had to get there. The group's journey through the narrow alleys was like swimming through a lake of fire. Several times they came under fire and fired back, not distinguishing whether their opponents were rebels or Aztlans.
  Finally, they broke through to the massive stadium, built a hundred years ago around the ancient sacred arena. As they ran, Ilona suddenly remembered the satirical story "Kromlech," which takes place in this stadium, but the thought immediately vanished without a trace.
  Lelekai was already there, lying among the ornamental bushes lining the arena. Here, the group's advance stalled—a serious battle ensued. A group of rebels had dug in at the stadium, from which soldiers, supported by a tank, attempted to dislodge them. He blocked the street leading to the park and methodically fired shell after shell toward the enemy. They responded with automatic fire from the stadium.
  Without waiting for orders, Tyukalov raised the RPG, fired, took a fresh charge from Ilona, and launched another grenade. The group supported him with automatic fire.
  The tank caught fire and began to crawl into the alley, the soldiers followed after it, some were wounded.
  "Forward!" Stolyarov roared.
  Firing indiscriminately, the group rushed headlong across the street and burst into the greenery.
  Here, among the thickets, it was quieter; even the sounds of urban fighting were muffled. Dead and wounded lay scattered here and there, and terrified civilians and tourists hid in the dense undergrowth.
  Statues of the gods and heroes of Mayapán and Aztlán lined the ancient paths, offerings laid before them—piles of flowers and bird feathers—and candles flickered in red glass holders. These ancient titans, priests, and warriors seemed to be indifferently listening to the sounds of catastrophe—one of many that had befallen this city over the centuries. Such trivialities had long ceased to interest them.
  The park was masterfully designed, creating the impression that the jungle surrounds them on all sides. It was as if the Yucatán's distant past lived here, sealed within the heart of a modern metropolis.
  And this was confirmed in the most insane way: around the bend in one of the paths, their way was blocked by a dull growling black panther - a huge jaguar with sparkling eyes.
  The fighters' reflexes kicked in instantly—three machine guns fired at the beast. Not a single living creature could survive this barrage of lead and fire, and the squad moved on without stopping.
  But around the next corner, the same ferocious cat sat and growled. Or perhaps its twin—there was no time to find out, and the machine guns began chattering again.
  Ilona thought the jaguars had escaped from the nearby zoo. Apparently, the cages had been opened during the riot. Although it was all very strange...
  The cat appeared again. Safe and sound.
  "What the hell!" Stolyarov said through clenched teeth.
  The fighters stopped, staring at an incredible apparition. It was a large, jet-black jaguar. And, judging by everything, it was clearly preparing for a deadly leap.
  "Commander, should I shoot?" Tyukalov asked hesitantly. "He'll charge right now..."
  "Stop," Kostya Lelekai's voice rang out. "It's useless—it's an enenylyn... A sorcerer, in your opinion."
  Tyukalov cursed briefly.
  — You didn't even take any holy water... Let me give it to him with an RPG!
  "Stop," the Chukchi repeated. "I can do it myself. I can do it—my grandfather was an enenylyn... You go on."
  Without taking his eyes off the beast's merciless eyes, he began to sing a mournful throaty melody.
  - Commander?..
  Tyukalov looked at Stolyarov doubtfully.
  "Let's go," he decided. "There's no time. Let Raven sort this out. We'll cut through the greenery."
  Mikhail and Ilona dove into the undergrowth after the commander. Before doing so, the girl glanced at Lelekai. Without interrupting his quiet chant, he approached the tense jaguar. The Chukchi left his rifle on the ground and pulled out a long, antique knife in a mammoth ivory frame—it always jutted over his left shoulder, prompting Tyukalov to mock him for his "rolled-out, ugly knife."
  “He knows we’re here,” Stolyarov said as he ran.
  "Who?" Ilona asked breathlessly, pushing her way through the thicket.
  — Cihuacoatl. You saw him on the pyramid...
  Ilona felt like they were trapped inside some dark fantasy novel. And it wouldn't end well...
  The thicket parted, and they emerged onto the Sacred Road, paved with yellow slate slabs. Usually teeming with pilgrims and curious tourists, it was now eerily empty. Just a few meters ahead lay a body.
  “Ready,” said Tyukalov, leaning over him.
  The dead man was a jaguar—apparently, the wounded warrior bled to death on the way to the cenote.
  "They're already there!" Stolyarov shouted. "Faster."
  The Sacred Cenote was once open, but after the establishment of Aztlan's rule, it was surrounded by a massive stone fence with images of deities and cast-iron gates, now tightly locked.
  Nearby stood a monument to Kukulkan—not a snake god, but a historical hero. He was sculpted according to all the canons: holding an axe, wearing a tall, ornate headdress made of the feathers of the royal quetzal bird, crowned with a coiled snake, with almost European features and a full beard. However, the sculptor was apparently from central Mexico—according to local tradition, one half of the hero's face was bare skull. At Kukulkan's feet rested his legendary jaguarundi.
  "They're there," Stolyarov said with conviction, nodding toward the gate. "Misha, come on."
  Tyukalov blew out the gate with a single shot, fulfilling his primary function in the group. All three rushed toward the opening through the smoke and debris of the gate. But they didn't make it—a machine gun fired from the wall.
  Ilona wasn't hit, but both men running ahead of her jumped and collapsed. Stolyarov, however, immediately rose and began helping Ilona drag the lieutenant's body to shelter. The nearest monument was the Feathered Serpent.
  There it became clear that Mishka was beyond help—the bullet had hit him in the forehead. The back of his head was gone, and his face, expressing boundless surprise, was only slightly touched by blood.
  Tears silently rolled from Ilona's eyes, but she turned sharply at the sound of a short groan and saw that Stolyarov was also in trouble. An off-center bullet had entered the hem of his body armor. The colonel, pale as if already dead, sat leaning against the pedestal, trying to hold back the blood gushing from his stomach with both hands.
  "Stop it, Second Lieutenant," he croaked as Ilona lunged for the first aid kit. "I'm dead. You didn't really think any of us would survive, did you?"
  - Nikolai Alekseevich...
  "Stop it," Stolyarov repeated. "We've been dead for an hour anyway. That's all."
  Ilona fell silent, stunned.
  The colonel laughed quietly. It seemed to cause a wave of pain—he grimaced, but continued speaking.
  "I told you, they'll respond with missiles. And they'll have warheads. The very same ones. And there's a military airfield near Chichen Itza. And it's definitely a target..."
  “But it’s far away, it won’t affect the city...” the girl said, confused.
  Stolyarov smiled wryly.
  "You don't understand what kind of Bomb this is... There won't be anyone left alive here. And if there are any, they'll envy the dead."
  The girl didn't know what to say.
  “Lona... you still... try to finish this,” Stolyarov nodded weakly towards the cenote.
  He was overcome again, his eyes closed, a groan escaping from between clenched teeth. He jerked his hand, trying to make the sign of the cross, but he didn't reach his forehead—he died. Ilona crossed herself for him and said a short prayer for the dead.
  The tears dried on her face. She calmly and precisely loaded the RPG and leaned out from her hiding place, trying to locate the machine gun emplacement.
  The bullets knocked out little plumes of dust in front of her, and she took cover again.
  “Hug,” Lenmena appeared next to me and lay down.
  Her face and clothes were stained with blood, and the ancient tomahawk hanging from her belt, covered with magical images, was also bloodied.
  "Kostya?" Ilona asked.
  "The sorcerer killed him," the Mohican replied. "It's just the two of us."
  She quickly assessed the situation and said to Ilona in pure Russian, with only a slight guttural accent:
  - Work, friend. I'll cover.
  Letting out a piercing battle cry, the Mohican leaped from cover like a cat, landing immediately and opening fire on the machine gun. She certainly didn't expect to hit the target; she kept rolling, dodging return fire, and firing bullet after bullet herself.
  At this time, Ilona, having adjusted the grenade launcher on the stone back of the kukulkan cat, carefully aimed - the charge was the last one.
  A loud bang. A fireball moves towards the enemy. Flames, smoke. The machine gun falls silent.
  "Let's go!" Lenmena shouted, apparently uninjured. "We can still make it..."
  Ilona rushed after her, and both instantly burst through the broken gates. No one fired at them.
  Inside, the courtyard, paved with rough cobblestones, was deserted. It seemed the surviving jaguars had disappeared through the gate on the opposite side. The holy site's clergy must have abandoned it even earlier.
  The sounds of battle were barely audible here; the still jade water in the well gleamed mysteriously, and the crowns of ancient trees bowed over it.
  Several corpses lay on the pavement. The girls looked at them with alarm, afraid to see their "object."
  Lenmena suddenly froze, listening. And then Ilona caught movement near the stone platform where offerings to the gods were thrown into the cenote. Several bodies lay there, jumbled together. One of them stirred and rose. Joy flared in Ilona when she recognized Evgeny. He was still naked, but the blue paint had almost completely faded from his body, mixed with dirt and blood.
  Beside herself, the girl ran up to him and burst into tears, burying her face in his chest. Evgeny hugged her and stroked her back.
  “Come on... come on, Lona the Cat, stop it, everything’s fine,” he said quietly.
  "Are you hurt?" Ilona asked, breaking away from him.
  Cromlech shook his head.
  - I don't. And that one over there is dead.
  He nodded towards the jaguar's corpse with its neck broken.
  "They untied me when they were about to throw me off. I grabbed one of them by the throat, and while they were tearing me away from him, you came..."
  Lenmena's eerie, piercing cry rang out.
  Ilona and Kromlekh saw a fantastic picture: a huge black jaguar sat on the wall and grinned, preparing to pounce.
  Or rather, he was already leaping, and a tomahawk tumbled through the air toward him. They met mid-flight, and the weapon sank into the beast's shoulder. But he continued to move and fell on the Mohican, knocking her off her feet. He then rolled to the edge of the well and lay motionless.
  Lenmena's throat was torn open by claws, blood spurting and a hissing sound. Ilona jumped up and tried to clamp the wound, but the blood continued to flow. Lenmena struggled to raise her hand and place it in Ilona's. The hissing began to form into indistinct and incomprehensible words:
  - There... I will give you... my clothes.
  The Mohican's bronze face turned grey, her eyes rolled back, her body sagged helplessly.
  "Stupid girl," came from the well. "What did you waste your nagual on... Such a beautiful nagual..."
  Turning sharply away from the Mohican's body, Ilona saw that where the wounded animal had just lain, there stood a man in a long black robe with a very familiar face.
  “Cihuacoatl...” Ilona recalled Stolyarov’s words.
  But how does she know him?..
  "Delgado!"
  The sorcerer, groaning, tried to remove the hatchet stuck in his collarbone with his left hand. His right arm hung limply.
  "Things of power..." he muttered angrily. "What savagery! Who uses things of power these days... And as for her nagual..."
  He seemed about to launch into a long, mocking speech, but this time he didn't get it—Ilona silently put a bullet in his forehead. The Cihuacoatl's body plopped into the cenote.
  “That’s it,” the girl said, putting down her machine gun and taking off her bulletproof vest.
  “I don’t think so...” Kromlech responded absentmindedly, looking up.
  Several bright dots appeared in the sky. They gradually lost altitude, leaving behind fluffy, glowing tails, and looked very much like some kind of reptile.
  “This is...” the girl began.
  "I know what it is," Kromlech interrupted her. "I came up with it myself..."
  His face became withdrawn and sullen.
  “Your anger is justified,” he whispered.
  The girl looked at the sky in horror.
  The cromlech turned to her.
  "Come on, Lona the Cat," he said tenderly, holding out his hand. "I don't like this world anymore. Maybe another one will be better."
  Ilona looked at him with bewilderment.
  "Trust me," he insisted. "We will get through this together, I know it."
  She looked again at the death approaching them, at his hand, and took it.
  The green waters opened their arms to them.
  
   From "The Lives of Our Good Ones Who Raised the Spear." Egrossimoyon, about three million Earth years ago
  "Many, many cycles have passed. Many times have the waters of the Hidden Grotto changed.
  It was like this: A passerby with the name of Ezoeeveli, the Good One, appeared in the Grottoes. He was, like them—a passerby, a stranger in the form of an egrosimoa, destined to disembody on the surface under the gaze of Adelinaam.
  There was a young female named Leenmiin. The Taiishaish-demon, Mother of Silence, punished her aura [ the translation is conditional, the concept denotes the totality of mental manifestations of egrosi ] with the curse of true [ the translation is conditional, the concept roughly denotes a platonic feeling without the intent of reproduction ] love for the Passerby, named Good. Until now, this unthinkable mixture [ the meaning is unclear ], granting death, for joy for Ezoevely is forbidden. The Council of Grottoes mercifully and sadly asked Leenmiin to die, for the egrosi was anxious to kill the Passerby, and she joyfully consented.
  The Hajj to Adelin-viiri was completed, and the Good One departed, along with Lehenmiin. The Good One was unlearned and alien, but his aura flowed into the communal prayer, and it was accepted. He didn't know why Lehenmiin, the adulteress, was going.
  When the Maw of Aadi-Iassi, as the pagan gods command—the essence of demons—was filled, she replaced his life with her own, gifting him with the aura of egrosimoa. Blagoy opened Neon-goo, departing. The sign was fulfilled.
  But he immediately reappeared there, and with him was another Passerby, a female of egrosi body. They were without spacesuits and began to die. The Good One donned his spacesuit, left in the Maw, and dressed the Passerby in Leenmiin's spacesuit.
  "Oh!" thought the Passerby. "She gave me her clothes!"
  They were young in years, children of Ezoevel, strangers, but the Father Almighty gave them will and wisdom.
  During the days of the celebration of the sorrow of the end of the cycle, the Hajj returned to the Grottoes, and there everyone awaited punishment, thinking: a new Day of Wrath is near. For never before had the twice-incarnate appeared, and two bodies of Egrosi united with Ezoeveli.
  For the Good One added the Passerby to himself, and they called her the Good One, and he called her Loona Agriyu. Their tadpoles did not die, and their offspring longed for life [ apparently, the family of the Good Ones did not suffer from the usual death of young and suicidal tendencies in the Grottos ]. Soon the Hidden Grotto contained a great multitude of egrosi bodies, in which Ezoevel lived.
  The Seelie became great and presided over the ceremonies. They revealed their faces to the Council of Grottoes, and the Masters showed them their palms [ the formal ritual of elevation to the Imperial dignity ]. They fought the unwilling Egrosi, they fought the Griisiya, they fought the demons of the surface.
  When the Griiziya defeated the Seelie, the Immaculate Virgin gave them a Spear in a dream. Raising it, they won.
  From now on, the Son's faith was called good in the Grottoes, and for brief periods, by the grace of the All-Father, the time of life came. The Grottoes became united, and the faith of the Perforated One grew.
  But the disembodied demons waited, and, by the permission of the All-Father, the Good One died on the surface, in the city of the Virgin Mary.
  Sadness consumed the good man. He thought: "She will no longer swim alongside me. Why have you abandoned me?"
  At the end of the feast of mourning, the Good One performed the ceremony of lamentation for Ezoevely, in the name of the All-Father, and the Son, and Their Power, thus conceiving a new cycle of Adelinaam.
  After which, thinking: “Loona Agriyu,” he opened Neon-goo.
  There was no more such thing, for the world stood still.
  May Egrossimoion and our Grotto, hidden in his womb, remain in peace until death!
  Now, when the remnant of the Egrosimoa has come to an end, remember the Immaculate Virgin and our Good Ones, who raised their spears and sailed with us. For they will meet you in the Heavenly Waters, where the Pierced Son administers judgment. Thus."
   34
  
  Kukulkan. Yucatan. Yuukuabnal (Chichen Itza). 9.8.11.6.10, and 13 Ok, and 18 Keh (November 2, 604)
  “I, Lord Priest Kukulkan, am writing to you...”
  Evgeny put down his brush and pondered how to convey his name using Mayan symbols. And then he realized he didn't need to invent anything. Once upon a time... or rather, many centuries before... in another world, when he wasn't yet a Seelie or a Kukulkan, but merely a young retired staff captain named Kromlekh, who after the war was unsuccessfully sending manuscripts of his first novel to publishers, he was introduced to a great man. True, the epithet with a capital G hadn't yet been applied to him, but no one doubted that Lev Gumilyov, born into a family of renowned poets, was a great scholar.
  Kromlech was introduced to him at a literary salon in Svyatoaleksandrovsk. The somewhat aristocratic Lev, who had difficulty making friends, was welcomed at court, burdened with numerous academic titles, and, like a Christmas tree, glittering with awards, unexpectedly took an interest in the budding writer. Perhaps it was their similar wartime backgrounds—both had fought in East Prussia—that played a role. They became friends—in fact, it was Lev's mother who later gave Kromlech his start in great literature. They met, drank, exchanged war memories, and discussed history and literature.
  Lev, by virtue of his family background, was also a great connoisseur of the latter. Once, after they'd finished their second bottle, they engaged in a semantic game, a pastime of the Olmecs—they'd choose a modern Russian word or name and try to render it in various ancient ideograms. This time, they used Mayan script, and Lev brilliantly rendered Cromlech's first and last name.
  Kukulkan smiled at the memory, picked up his brush again, and continued writing on the tanned deer hide: "...A man of noble birth, his family is called the sacred stone circle. I am you..."
  And he thought again. Is this really true? He's writing a letter to himself, who will be born fourteen centuries from now. But who is he, this future Cromlech? He'll live in a completely different, unfamiliar world. Perhaps similar to the world of "The Man with the Cat," or perhaps not. After all, no one guaranteed that the novel came to Cromlech from the "true" reality. And which "reality" is true, anyway?
  In fact, Evgeny didn't even know for sure whether he would be born into the new version of the world that would emerge after his life here. Or even whether that world would be different. He could only hope that his "successor," his alter ego, the "bead" of his cyclic personality, or whatever it was, would receive this letter and follow its advice.
  But since he had no idea what the realities of life of the Third Cromlech (or the First?.. Or which?..) would be, he had to write with extreme caution and evasiveness.
  “...You will come through the seamy side of the world, through the great membrane of transition, to where the mouth of the well of water sorcerers is,” he continued.
  Not yet this city (or just a village in the middle of dense jungle) It was called Yucuabnal. Cromlech knew from the history of his world that it was called Chichen Itza after the tribe living there, led by the great king Kukulkan, began their conquest of Yucatan. However, this name was still in use—it was the name given to the local settlement by pilgrims from other cities who came to cast offerings for the god Chac into the Sacred Cenote. In other words, the city wasn't named after the people, but the people after the local shrine. So let it be "the mouth of the well of the water sorcerers"...
  Evgeny glanced around the cluster of one-story adobe houses with thatched roofs, huddled around several stone buildings. His palace, in the upper chambers of which he now wrote alone, was also made of stone. Of course, this wasn't the imposing building in the Old Capital where, in a future that would never come, the Aztlans held the writer Evgeny Kromlekh captive. It was much smaller for now, but for now, it was still an architectural achievement.
  "You will go to Bolon Yokte, where the nagual..." he concluded, raising his eyes to the dark evening sky beyond the open door of his chambers, immediately finding a bright red star. Mars... And Bolon Yokte, the Many-Coming-Bringer-of-Misfortune—his god. Although this is an anachronism now. Bolon Yokte is still the god of war among the Toltecs, who live far to the west. In the world from which Cromlech departed, they crushed the weakened Mayapan and ruled for a long time in Chichen Itza—until, in turn, the Mexica-Aztecs arrived here. The Toltecs brought their gods to Yucatan, including Bolon Yokte. However, by the time (if!) the manuscript is found, such nuances will no longer matter. The main thing is that his successor understands it.
  Bolon Yokte... Kromlech the Good knew well who this was. For him, the names of the local gods were no longer just pretentious words...
  Kukulkan sipped the royal cocoa bean drink from the cup—a horrific abomination, but he didn't dare improve its flavor to match the future recipe. The main thing was to keep it that way, let everything continue as it was.
  The red star bothered him, like a piercing alarm. Memories flooded back. Kromlech set his cup aside, rose from the floor, leaving the manuscript and writing utensils on the low table, and walked out onto the palace roof. He was greeted by a guard, for whom such solitary evening strolls through the halach-vinik were a regular occurrence.
  "The new me can't know what will get through the Membrane to Egrossimoyon," Cromlech continued to ponder what he had already thought over and over again. "After all, I myself believed that I would immediately arrive in the past of Chichen Itza—that was the most logical thing."
  Mars proved to be a trickster, suddenly appearing and disrupting all plans. Even the seers ignored him, though parts of their cyclical personalities, as Cromlech had confirmed, had infiltrated them. But after many years spent as an egrosi, in the former Red Planet, he understood that the Membrane's logic was in fact impeccable. And the fact that it didn't correlate with ordinary human logic was the latter's misfortune. The Membrane wasn't a vehicle for traveling through space-time, but a passageway to other planes of existence. The Xibalba Rupture is the dark road to the underworld, where death passes into life and vice versa. The path to the nagual... And Mars is the nagual of Earth, his cosmic alter ego. Egrossimoyon, the older brother of Ezoeeveli, who could share his fate...
  Of course, the Cromlech that is born (if!) centuries later will not even suspect this. But the essence of the Passerby will incessantly trouble him, urging him to seek the impossible. And he must be warned from the depths of the past.
  Did this make sense? Kukulkan didn't know—he couldn't know. But he had to try.
  The new Cromlech will still pass through the Membrane—simply because it is a Cromlech. And let it do everything to break the magical loop of its personality's eternal rotation through worlds and eras that threatens to strangle the world. This could only be accomplished through an act that the seers themselves called "stopping the world," interpreting it as the inner process of becoming a magician. However, what Kukulkan was attempting now was an attempt to stop the world in the most literal sense. He must halt the chaotic and ever-increasing changes caused by the emergence of new Cromlechs in the past. His own life could be endlessly replicated throughout history, but if he refused to change, the world would likely initially slow down, and then history would resume its established course. At least, that was what Evgeny hoped.
  "The world is a sacred vessel that cannot be manipulated. If anyone tries to manipulate it, they will destroy it. If anyone tries to appropriate it, they will lose it." So spoke the sage Lao Tzu, eleven centuries ago and fifteen thousand kilometers to the west, who proposed the concept of wu wei, virtuous non-action.
  Which Cromlech now attempted to apply. Emerging from the cenote in the form of an Egrosi, he was, of course, proclaimed the Feathered Serpent and became king of the local people. But he tried to live unnoticed. The great name of Kukulkan must fade, become that of an insignificant king of the Itza tribe, lost in the murky waters of history. He did exactly what any ruler of a small Mayan city did: danced before the gods, feasted, married, fathered children, waged war on neighboring cities—with varying success. No technical innovations, no long-distance campaigns, no inappropriate initiative or strategic instructions to his sons. He did, however, forbid human sacrifice—as far as possible.
  The next Cromlech - if he does not want to play on the side of the forces that Eugene has renounced - must do the same.
  And the next one... And - how many more will come?..
  It doesn't matter - do what you must, and come what may.
  A crisis of the civilizations of Central Atlantis was approaching. The ecological and social collapse would be compounded by an invasion of the passionate (greetings to Leo, son of the scribes, who coined the term) Mexica peoples. The distant empire of Teotihuacan would collapse before it could extend its tentacles to these lands. Meso-Atlantis, in the words of political scientists contemporaneous with the Cromlech, would be "Balkanized"—a process of fragmentation and disintegration would be set in motion. Famine would trigger uprisings and civil wars, and Mayapan would never achieve imperial status. It's likely the Maya would never establish a unified state.
  “Perhaps then the development of the Atlantic peoples will stagnate, and Europe, having survived the medieval crisis without an invasion from overseas, will, as in my novel, conquer Atlantis... America itself,” thought Evgeny.
  The world of his novel, of course, is little better than the one he lived in. But perhaps such was the natural course of history. Here and now, Cromlech could only speculate, but he drew on his knowledge of the rise and fall of civilizations, and not just earthly ones... After all, he was the Lord of the Grottoes, trying, by overcoming the "force of things," to delay the end of the Egrosi world...
  And he was not alone.
  Lona the Cat! Loona Agriyu!
  Pain gripped his soul, he hurried back to his room, knelt before his desk, and wrote: "You will be alone. I was not alone. I swam in the water. It swam with me..."
  Or maybe that other Cromlech will already have met her by the time he reads this?..
  The only thing he was sure of was that they would meet. Because the paths of human souls are as inviolable as the laws of motion of cosmic bodies.
  Evgeny briefly considered what semantic meaning to apply to Lona's name. Suddenly, he felt a warm presence nearby, and a small creature rubbed against his leg. A contented purr echoed. His jaguarundi, Aska, had missed her owner and found him in her usual place.
  Kromlech stroked the cat, grinned and confidently wrote: “Jaguarundi-woman, her name is Women’s Grotto.”
  Lon's Cat... He first called her that here, in Chichen Itza, before they crossed the Neon-go—centuries and universes separated him from that day. She trusted him completely, knowing nothing of the Membrane or the Passersby. And he could only hope that they would survive—both of them. And he realized he was right only when they broke through the streams of cosmic energies that had reshuffled the cells of their bodies and found themselves in the jaws of Aadi-Iaassi—on the deadly surface of Mars.
  He couldn't have known that he had appeared there almost immediately after his predecessor had left Egrossimoion. However, apparently the "beads" of his personality were somehow exchanging information—gasping for breath, he confidently donned the spacesuit of Cromlech the First lying nearby, without any confusion about the functions of his new body. And he dressed Ilona in the spacesuit of the sacrificed female lying nearby. Of course, everything that had happened was a profound shock to him, but he pushed it to the back of his mind, realizing that his duty now was to survive and save the girl.
  "She gave me her clothes..." a strange thought entered his mind, and Evgeny realized it was Ilona's first thought in the Egrosi body. He also realized that the strange creatures standing around him, of which he had now become one, were hearing and listening to them.
  Kukulkan put down his brush again and raised his eyes to Mars. Now it must be completely lifeless. When he left, civilization was dying—it wouldn't have lasted millions of years. Now the Grottoes were frozen, all life there perished. Only Aadi-Iaassi, like an eternal sentry, with a half-dead face, stood before the gazing Adelinaam, and the playful Agri stood frozen beside its master. Like the entire planet and its people, they had become mere cosmic symbols, a warning and a lesson for other intelligent beings.
  "It would be nice if the new me were transported to other eras of Egrossimoion," thought Cromlech. "Maybe even before the Day of Wrath. I wonder who I would be? And what would happen then?"
  The thought was fruitless, and he abandoned it—he needed to finish the codex. He called his letter exactly what future scholars would call the Mayan manuscripts. Such codices were very few in number: they were burned by the merciless Toltecs and destroyed by the tropical forest environment, so each was worth its weight in gold. But his personal history, closely intertwined with the history of humanity, as if around assemblage points, clustered around three manuscripts. "The Teachings of Kukulkan," preserved in manuscript form only because the Toltecs paid him divine homage. The Codex of the Nameless Sinai Monk, who described the end of Kukulkan's story. And the novel "The Man with the Cat."
  So, it turns out that he is now writing the fourth code?..
  But the world doesn't revolve around his magnificent personality—Eugene realized this when he was in Blagoy's shoes. Yes, he probably understood this intuitively much earlier.
  The stars and planets blurred before his eyes, vanishing. In their place appeared a gigantic Face, before which the visage of Aadi-Iaassi, and even the fiery image of Adelinaam, were mere specks.
  Kukulkan placed his hand on his bare chest, where a cross was tattooed. If there was a tool in the universe capable of stopping the world and restoring normality, it was this. It was astonishing that the Cromlech realized this in a world where the cross was replaced by a straight line, and the sacred symbol of what was essentially the same religion was a trident spear...
  He never learned whether the Egrosi perceived him as a separate entity from his predecessor, or as a single entity, or whether they simply didn't care. It didn't matter. He quickly realized that Cromlech I had left during a crisis in Grotian society. It was all very reminiscent of the situation in Rome during Caesar's time—except Caesar wasn't there. The pursuit of power was not favored by the Egrosi, especially after the Day of Wrath. But they understood its necessity. And his predecessor simply didn't know that the pilgrimage and sacrifice in the ruins of Adelin-viiri were part of his initiation—that he could lead the Grotians and save the Egrosi from impending disaster.
  It wasn't in the Egrosi's nature to talk about such things, or even to clearly formulate such thoughts telepathically. Their fatalistic view of the world assumed that what was destined would come to pass.
  The second Good One came true, paired with the Good One, and the Grots accepted them. Not without a struggle—there was opposition there, too. Having barely grasped the situation, Cromlech joined the flow of events here. Why, he himself didn't quite understand. Perhaps he was tormented by pity for the life and culture of intelligent beings—after all, he had come here from a world perishing in flames...
  One would think his Seelie experienced something similar. It was certainly much harder for her than for him—he was at least partially prepared for such a metamorphosis. But her Passerby nature—and she certainly was—helped her integrate into the alien world and accept her purpose within it.
  Although, maybe it was just love...
  But perhaps the main thing that motivated them to act here was the awareness of the presence of a formidable enemy. Cromlech encountered the mysterious Heenaroo and recognized in him an old acquaintance—part of a cyclical being of which the earthly Delgado was also a member. Taken as a whole, they were the embodiment of what they themselves called the Eagle—a spectral entity, a play-acting void that devoured souls. It was everywhere—and nowhere.
  The Cromlech didn't fear the seers—they couldn't defeat him on Earth, and they wouldn't succeed on Mars. To him, they were merely... yes, a petty tyrant, whose unshakable power was ultimately illusory. Such, in fact, was the Eagle himself, shaping these images of emptiness into puppet-like beings.
  Heenaroo and his duplicates, though they tried, were unable to disrupt the path of the Seelie. But there were also the disembodied—the "pendants on beads." Passersby, who played the role of gods on Earth but became disembodied wandering entities on Mars, served as a sad example of what could happen to mortals lost on magical paths. They were terrifying, but harmless—the Seelie encountered the same Bolon Yokte a couple of times (here, of course, had a different name, but his name no longer had any meaning), and felt nothing but pity and fear of falling into a similar state. This "bringer of misfortune" was now misfortune incarnate...
  They were neither living nor dead, and their indeterminate status meant they had no influence on reality. But this changed when living beings began following them. Then they became powerful and gained the power to interfere with the course of real events. These were dangerous.
  Such was the Mother of Silence—Tayishaish, the Passerby, known in the Mayan world as Ish-Tab. A noose woman who urged people to kill themselves and transported their souls to the next world, and who also sent tragic love to the Egrosi, akin to suicide in their eyes. Blagoy suspected that she was known to people beyond the Yucatan and that she bore other names, but he didn't want to investigate.
  Kukulkan abandoned writing altogether, clutching his head in his hands and completely immersed himself in memories of his life on Mars.
  The war with the Grizii was long and hard. In fact, the Adelin-Egrosi had fought them throughout the ages in the Grottoes. It was merely a continuation of the old rivalry on the surface, which Aadi-Iaassi had ended. But the war that began after the Seelie became rulers of the Grottoes was exceptional in its ferocity and scale. One might have thought the Grizii viewed it as their last.
  Or perhaps it wasn't they who perceived her this way, but Taiishaish, who pushed them into battle. Paradoxically, she merged in the minds of the Grizii with the image of Ezoeeveli, not as the Mother of Consolation, but as the death-giving Mother of Silence. Evgeny had never seen such a will to self-destruction—even during the war, when the populations of entire Japanese towns, upon hearing the news of their country's shameful surrender, threw themselves like one man off the cliffs into the sea. But the Grizii simply fought as if they had already survived death, and therein lay their great strength.
  But why Tayishaish needed all this, Kromlech had little idea. Most likely, she needed confirmation of her existence—the undead were trying to cling to reality. Evgeny didn't care: he felt nothing for her except a burning hatred. The first thing that surfaced in his memory when he realized the identity of Tayishaish and Ish-Tab was the swollen, bluish face of his strangled son...
  "Yura, Yura!.."
  Even now, Cromlech, a man who was finishing his third life in memory, who had given birth to many children in different worlds, who had seen them grow up and mature, and who had buried some of them, groaned from an old pain.
  "Lord, please let him be alive when I return!"
  Ilona was the first to understand. On Earth, she had been a devout believer—like many young people of the postwar generation—and after becoming an Egrosi, she suffered from being separated from her faith. She never told her husband this, but he saw it.
  "There is salvation here!" she joyfully told him one day.
  And Kromlech, who on Earth remembered God only in the most difficult moments, understood her. It wasn't just that he knew of his predecessor's interest in the teachings of the Nameless One. Again, it was the telepathic factor: he had seen the mental communities here—the calmly doomed egregors of his compatriots, or the furious but desperately death-hungry egregor of the Grizi. There were others—the ancient and complex society of the Grots. But none of them held love or hope—except for those Egrosi who glorified the ancient preacher killed by a spear.
  Within both Seelie Ones lived humans and Christians; they could understand what all this meant and the power this teaching could wield... But all these calculations, largely based on the specific situation—the Adelin-Egrosi were losing the war of annihilation—would have been for naught. If not for...
  Even now, Kukulkan found it difficult to recall that dream—it had been so vivid and... true. And was it even a dream? The woman—he couldn't tell whether she was an Egrosi or a human—seemed clad in adelinaam, handed him the three-pronged spear of the Grots, saying:
  - Defeat them.
  He took it and conquered it.
  Yes, the war continued for many more cycles—almost the entirety of his long life on Egrossimoion. But ever since the Seelie brought the Grottoes under the Spear of the Son, the Grizii had only retreated and died. And along with them, Taiishaish steadily weakened and lost its connection with the real world. Until it finally left the Grottoes, joining the disembodied spirits of the surface.
  At least the Seelie thought so.
  "Ilona, Cat Lona..."
  And this pain will never leave Evgeniy’s heart, no matter who or where he is.
  The Grotto Lords celebrated their victory, as dictated by an ancient tradition predating the Day of Wrath—with a pilgrimage. The ancient emperors journeyed to the great western peaks to brave mortal dangers and offer prayers to the Adelinas there. The Seelie faced an even more arduous journey across the surface to the east, beyond even the ruins of Adelin-viiri—to a region of low mountains near a large ocean bay, where the last great battle between the Solar Empire and the kingdom of Griisiya had taken place.
  By order of Aadi-Iassi, a flat rock was hewn here in memory of the fallen on both sides, revealing the face of the Sorrowful Mother. The face of the Virgin was terrifyingly beautiful and strikingly human—the Egrosi masters miraculously divined it back when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth. It still gazes with great sadness directly into the fiery face of Adelinaam.
  The Good Ones also commemorated the fallen here—in the name of the All-Father, and the Son, and Their Power, thus. During the liturgy, Ilona's face shone with joy—Eugene saw it even through the visor of his spacesuit. The defeated Ish-Tab managed to enter one of the pilgrims for a few moments, and he pierced the Good One's heart with a ritual spear. She died instantly.
  Loona Agriyu!
  The killer also died, and Ish-Tab powerlessly scattered across the surface.
  It was the beginning of a new cycle for the Adelinaam. The Lord of the Grottoes, the Good One, the high priest of the Perforated One, performed the ancient ceremony of lamentation for Ezoeeveli, now an integral part of the Liturgy of the Spear, and proclaimed the renewal of the world to his flock. Then he passed through the Membrane to Earth, to the Yucatan village of Yucuabnal.
  Where he intended to remain until his next death.
  "Ish-Tab took her. Oh, my wife. I'm crying," he wrote in a letter to himself, and tears actually began to flow from his eyes.
  He understood a great deal about this story—as much as his human mind could. But he still couldn't grasp Ilona's role. After all, without her, everything would have been so much simpler. Or was it the other way around? But in any case, she was the most important chapter of his code. Perhaps the key one. Perhaps without her, he wouldn't succeed here—just as his predecessor had failed on Mars. What kind of king is he without strength, without the "warmth of his soul," which here is called kukh?
  In fact, the new Seelie suspected that his predecessor had spent his life so unnoticed among the Egrosi only because he was alone. And who knows how the fates of Mars and Earth would have turned out if Lona the Cat had been by his side. Or if the young Egrosi who sacrificed herself in his place had refused to follow the ancient laws and traditions...
  However, the latest story of Kromlech the Good-Kukulkan ended as it did. He wrote a text to his eldest son, who would bury him and erect a pyramid over his body—not as large, of course, as the future pyramid of Kukulkan—that would be carved on the wall of his tomb. And only there should his name remain—he ordered that it should never be written anywhere else. Although the idea that Lona would one day read this inscription was again nothing more than a hope.
  But how can one live without hope?
  He reflexively placed his hand again on the cross on his chest. It was the symbol the seers wanted to erase from the history of Atlantis, and eventually, the entire world. From their perspective, they were entirely correct. Their teachings and way of life ultimately presupposed the simplification of the world, its transformation from volume to plane, from sphere to circle. And the cross, for them, was an invincible trickster, destroying these finite figures, spreading in all directions to infinity, giving the world multidimensionality.
  He saw on Egrossimoion what two-dimensional consciousness does to intelligent beings and civilizations. But even there, a symbol arrived, announcing that the Circle could be broken—a three-pronged Spear.
  “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen,” Evgeny crossed himself, because he was now on Earth.
  A person who has surrendered their soul to infinity will always be stronger than one who is drawn by the well-worn path from life to death, after which their soul will sink into the womb of some Eagle. And life—the tonal—is infinitely stronger than nothingness—the nagual.
  "Cross the circle with a cross!" he wrote to himself. "Don't be afraid of the Eagle!"
  This is why the seers and the civilizations among which they arose were never able to overcome the cultures formed under the shadow of the Cross. Simply because complexity is stronger than simplicity, and life is stronger than death. At first glance, this seems paradoxical, but it is true. The issue isn't about people, who are people everywhere. The Spaniards who conquered America in "The Man with the Cat" are probably no better or kinder than the fanatical Mexica and fierce Caribbeans who conquered half of Europe and a large swath of Africa in the real world.
  He, of course, couldn't become a Christian preacher in ancient Atlantis now—that would have created unpredictable paradoxes. Let everything continue as it was. But he could try to do the opposite of what the seers wanted of him—to preserve the sacredness of the Cross on this continent. This sign is now sacred in the dense forests, prairies, and river valleys of the northern continent, in the mountains and jungles of the southern, and here, on the isthmus between them.
  Here, it symbolized the Tree of Life and simultaneously the triune god of fertility. Each time he performed his royal dance before the cross-shaped pillar, with the cross-shaped staff in hand, Kukulkan felt that he truly stood guard over life. The cross remained even in the world it had left—the Cromlech remembered the sound of the fiery crosses in the plaza of Chichen Itza. But apparently, in that world, they were merely a reflection, powerless to protect him.
  In a world that has only horizontal divisions - without vertical ones, it is easy to forget about infinity and surrender to sweet dying.
  “The world is delightfully complex,” Kukulkan whispered, not taking his eyes off the starry sky.
  At that moment, he felt the integrity of his entire multifaceted personality and understood that it possessed a single soul. Just as civilizations bound by the Membrane possessed a single life force. "It's not just Earth and Mars!" a dazzling realization struck him. A grandiose garland of multicolored, pulsating lights shone in space. They were infinitely diverse, but connected by a "strong thread of time" and interpenetrating. Including for intelligent beings, who in this small segment of the garland were called Passersby.
  And behind it all lay a grand, incomprehensible design. This was a great novel, undoubtedly possessed by an Author who simultaneously saw all its plot lines, all the worlds and times it encompassed, all its characters. He saw all the Cromlechs, the Seelie, and the Elons at once, in every moment of their lives, saw their interconnected personalities, their wanderings through time, space, and their own souls. He saw everything.
  This was the Codex written by God. The fourth, and the only one.
  Kukulkan finished the letter, carefully folded it, wrapped it in a piece of cloth, and placed it in a wooden case soaked in an insect-repellent solution. He inserted the case into a stone capsule he had previously carved for it. He would seal it in the wall of a small, elegant temple adjacent to his palace for royal ceremonies. The Cromlech had reason to believe the building would survive until his rebirth.
  Having finished his work, he rose and went back out onto the roof. From the dark chamber, the eyes of the jaguarundi gleamed mysteriously after him. The evening breeze stirred the quetzal feathers in Kukulkan's high coiffure. He stood upright, extended his arms toward the heavenly Image, and shouted at the top of his lungs in Russian:
  — It's me, Cromlech! Can you see me?!
  The guard, in awe of the royal sacrament, dropped his spear and fell to his knees, hiding his face.
   35
  
   Epilogue
  
  Ilona (Elena) Linkova. Nowhere, never.
  - You're a fool!
  Tash stood with her back to Ilona. She was no longer a living ice statue—just a curvy, naked woman.
  “You’re ruining everything,” she said angrily, with hysterical notes.
  Carol didn't look like a powerful sorceress at all now - just a grumpy woman quarrelling with an enemy.
  “I never promised you that I’d be a good girl,” Ilona replied absentmindedly, looking around.
  The interior of the barn hadn't changed at all - the walls still had gaping holes, straw lay haphazardly on the floor, and in the back there was a wooden platform with a makeshift bed.
  Ilona felt free, as if in a dream. On some higher level of consciousness, she clearly understood that she had left her world behind forever. Snowy Krasnoyarsk, slushy, noisy Moscow, and hot Mexico lay behind her. And all the problems she had never resolved there. Now there would be something different. Better or worse, she didn't know. But she was completely calm. From now on and forever she would be calm, because since she had come here, there was some higher power that had brought her. And this Power would take care of her in the future.
  "Can you finally explain to me what this place is?" she asked Tash, as if they were old acquaintances who had met while shopping.
  "I told you—a crossroads between worlds," Carol grumbled. "Getting in here is hard, and leaving is even more unlikely. You were very lucky last time."
  Ilona remained silent.
  "We suspected you'd be trouble from the start," Tash continued in the same tone. "That's why Carlito married you to his double, that's why we framed you for the CIA. But we never imagined you'd be able to sabotage everything..."
  It seemed she didn't care whether Ilona listened to her or not.
  "It was impossible to destroy you—you were already integrated into Don Eugenio's life structure; there was no way to remove it, otherwise there would be unpredictable consequences. But in all worlds, in all versions of reality, when you appear next to him, something goes a little differently than it should, and as a result, everything collapses..."
  Tash fell silent, and Ilona didn't answer either—there was nothing to answer, all this talk seemed like a dark forest to her, although she understood that something very important lay behind it. For her and Zhenya.
  "The problem is," Tash began again, "that the parts of our being can't communicate directly, and there's no unified center of will. So we know some things, we can only guess at others, and the rest is completely in the dark. We know, for example, that we need the Cromlech journeys—they combine the time of the tonal and the nagual. It's convenient for us. But if you're interfering with this, and we can't get rid of you, then we need to bind your personality to ours. And the easiest way to do that was by forcing you to reveal something sacred, something that forms part of your personality. A translation of a codex, for example. We'd be curious to know what it says, of course, but first and foremost, we wanted to incorporate you into our egregor. But something went wrong again..."
  "You're an anomaly!" Carol suddenly screamed furiously, turning around with the grace of a panther.
  Her high breasts trembled, her skin flushed, her eyes flashed. She was almost beautiful and certainly terrifying.
  “You’re a trickster, just like this,” she pointed an accusing finger at the cross sticking out from under Ilona’s open jacket.
  "We are not madmen, we are the most rational beings in all the worlds," she continued in a lower tone. "But we cannot understand how this absurd teaching constantly hinders us. Perhaps it is some kind of joke of the Eagle, and we accept it and laugh at it along with him."
  Ilona shrugged.
  “So what’s the problem?” she asked.
  The whole spectacle left little impression on her—she'd seen and experienced many far more astonishing things recently. However, Tash watched her movements closely—trusting the witch would be foolish.
  The demoness laughed so terribly that it slightly affected Ilona. Then she raised her hand to her face, as if she were suddenly ashamed. But no—she simply... opened her face, like a small door. It immediately lost all expression, froze, and began to stare indifferently to the side.
  And from the hole where her face had been, heat and smoke emanated. At first, Ilona thought it was darkness and emptiness. But then she saw moving, flickering spots, and muffled giggling and incomprehensible mutterings emanated from within.
  Tash covered her face, which had regained its ability to express itself—it now expressed mockery.
  "Don't joke around with us," she advised ominously. "We're the jokers here, not you."
  "Are you still thinking of killing me?" Ilona asked.
  She had no idea what she would do if the witch attacked her, but she had no doubt that she would fight back somehow.
  And Tash attacked - with a wild, inhuman scream, from which it seemed the barn would immediately collapse.
  However, it did not collapse.
  Tash stopped so close to Ilona that she could smell her heated body. But she didn't move any further, as if she'd encountered an invisible but insurmountable barrier.
  "I've already killed you," the sorceress hissed right into Ilona's face. "Once, for sure. And no more—you'll stay here forever."
  She jumped back and burst into laughter again.
  "I told you right away you were a fool," she said mockingly. "You shouldn't have come here. And your priest is a fool for letting you down. Now you'll sit in this wreck forever. And if you do leave, you'll die right away. So I'm leaving you now."
  She made another eerie movement with her hand, revealing her face. From the dim, dark hole, a busy muttering in an unknown language once again emanated. Simultaneously, Tash's body began to lose its density, transforming into a kind of dark gas with a rather pungent odor. The process began with her legs. Soon, the gas they had transformed into began to swirl and be drawn into the hole in her face, as if a powerful pump were at work there.
  Then the lower abdomen, torso, and shoulders vanished; the remains of the neck, ears, and hair were sucked into the gibbering void. Finally, only the face remained before the hole hanging in the air. It didn't turn gaseous—it fell limply onto the straw and remained there. And the hole quickly collapsed and disappeared.
  Ilona watched the metamorphosis with mild interest. When it was complete, she nudged the empty-eyed mask lying on the floor, seemingly made of some kind of plastic, with her toe. But she didn't pick it up.
  Left alone, Ilona looked around more carefully. She had no doubt she would be able to leave this strange place.
  Her attention was drawn to cracks in the walls—something was clearly happening behind them. Ilona pressed her face against one and saw... herself. And next to her was Zhenya. They were young and seemingly happy, kissing in some park with exotic trees and strange statues.
  And what was in that crack over there? There she was, too—a very young girl, listening to the great Professor Cromlech's lecture in a packed auditorium. Ilona found it amusing to look at her own face—hopelessly in love, though the girl clearly hadn't realized it yet.
  Smiling, Ilona peered through another crack and immediately realized she was looking at Mexico. It was the Day of the Dead. Thousands of flickering lights, like constellations, illuminated gold-and-black sombreros, the white patches of men's shirts, the colorful ribbons in the braids of elderly Indian women, the lace of colorful women's blouses... The action, as befits this day, took place in a cemetery—crosses and tombstones strewn with a thick carpet of yellow petals, adorned with wreaths and bouquets of marigolds, and piled high with food, drinks, photographs, toys, and souvenirs.
  And here they were again, with Zhenya. Ilona realized this, even though they, like many of the revelers, were wearing the traditional skull masks of the day. Zhenya's mask, however, left half his face exposed, revealing his famous dent in the forehead. He was raising a shot of mescal to his lips, and Ilona was laughing and saying something to him.
  She didn't want to watch this sinister mirth any longer, so she went to another crevice. There she was alone, standing with a mournful expression by the cenote into which the Cromlech had sunk, looking at his monument with a cat in his arms and a face that was also half-skull.
  She hurried to another opening, and beyond it they were together again—but in clearly extreme circumstances. It looked like a war was going on: flashes of explosions in the night, fiery trails of tracer bullets. They lay shoulder to shoulder in a small trench, firing machine guns into the darkness.
  Ilona recoiled and moved to another seat. Kromlech—or maybe not Kromlech, and she—or maybe not she—they were arguing in some dusty, boring office, both in old-fashioned, unassuming clothes... EVK was already quite elderly and somehow... unlike himself. And without the dent on his head. She didn't like what she saw.
  But here... At first, she couldn't understand what she was seeing. Although she seemed familiar with these creatures—enormous, with crested heads and powerful tails. A vast crowd of them had gathered in some grand city, in a vast square. There were tens of thousands of them, and they were all staring at one point—the balcony of a huge building, where two small figures were visible.
  And it was she and Zhenya, too, in the guise of these reptilians. Cromlech, wearing a tall, tiara-like headdress, extended his lizard paws to the crowd, and they howled with delight.
  A phrase in an unknown language formed in Ilona's head... Or maybe it wasn't even words, just a fragment of some inhuman thought. But she understood the meaning perfectly: "Listen to the voice of Fire!"
  Interesting... And here they were, side by side with Kromlech, like the same creatures, swimming underwater together—without any scuba gear, powerfully and easily, and Ilona understood that they were happy and comfortable here. It seemed she had seen this before...
  The next scene seemed even stranger, though it couldn't get any stranger. Yet somehow Ilona recognized this scene, too. In a huge, futuristic-looking hall, a couple was clearly engaged in some kind of athletic exercise. They seemed to be... definitely fencing. But not with swords: in their hands, the teacher and student clutched short metal tubes that emitted astonishing beams of blinding blue and green. The light somehow held the shape of the blade. The teacher was Evgeny—young, with an unmutilated head, wearing unusual clothing, but it was him. And the student... undoubtedly a young woman, but... not human. With brick-red skin streaked with white and large striped appendages crowning her head, it was also she—Ilona.
  ...And she seemed to have seen this motley, yet muted-hued plain under the strange-looking sun, too. Yes, indeed, and those mountains on the horizon, and the closer, elongated pyramid. Only at first, Ilona didn't realize it was a pentagon.
  She also recognized the creatures standing with their backs to her—it was a group of the same bipedal reptiles. Only their clothes, she realized now, were worn over spacesuits.
  Zhenya was among them - she knew it for sure.
  Ilona pulled back from the crack and thought. She wasn't here near the Cromlech. Somehow, she realized she wasn't even in this world.
  But... Tash said, "In all versions of reality, when you appear next to him, something happens a little differently." What these words meant to the mages, Ilona didn't want to know. But for her, it meant that she had to come to him where she wasn't. And then something would surely change, perhaps for the better. Perhaps the whole world would become better... better?
  And also... she also remembered the inscription from the pyramid - the one whose translation she had destroyed, but knew by heart: “I want you to meet me and pass through the great membrane to Bolon Yokte”...
  “Let me decide,” she whispered.
  And when she looked at the crack again, she saw that it was right in the door, closed only by a light wooden latch. It was surprising that she hadn't noticed it right away.
  Ilona lifted the latch. The door creaked open slightly, and unfamiliar smells and sounds flooded into the barn. They seemed to foretell danger.
  Doesn't matter!
  She stepped out resolutely and was not surprised to see her body growing and changing, the shreds of human clothing hanging awkwardly from it.
  She was immediately overcome with a feeling of suffocation, and her head seemed to explode with pain. But at the same time, her entire body rejoiced with a long-forgotten sense of youth and strength. And she also gained something completely unfamiliar and astonishing—a connection to the thoughts and emotions of these beings. Egrosi...
  She felt them, and they felt her. Zhenya... Blagoy, yes... turned sharply, saw, and his joy of recognition burst into her: "Lona the Cat!"
  And another emotion attracted her. A female... Young. In love. She understood what was happening and didn't want it. No matter, we'll figure it out.
  It was almost impossible to breathe; her face felt like it was being squeezed from the inside, so much so that her eyes were bulging, and the bitter cold was gradually suppressing even the mighty life of the Egrosi within her body. Ilona collapsed helplessly onto the cold sand.
  "Get in the car! Hurry!" she caught Evgeniy's thoughts. "Buck, spacesuit!"
  He grabbed her in his arms and rushed off somewhere in huge leaps.
  “Yes, now everything will definitely change,” Ilona thought and lost consciousness.
  
  St. Petersburg, 2018–2019
  
  I thank Sergei Gennadievich Krivenkov, whose work "Mars: The Complex in Cydonia" I used in describing the ancient empire of Egrossimoion. I also thank Nun Evgenia (Senchukova), press secretary of the Yakutsk diocese, for the article I used in Father Feodor's speech. I am especially grateful to Nadezhda Omelko for her careful proofreading of the text. Special thanks to my good friends: Alexander Putyatin, whose thoughts are reflected in the reasoning of some of the characters, and especially Tatyana Alekseeva-Minasyan, whose contribution to the creation of this novel is invaluable.
  P.V.
  Synopsis (spoilers)
  
  Chrono-fantasy, alt-history, space opera, mysticism. Set in our reality from 1937 to 2030; an alternate 1980; ancient Mexico from 552 to 605; and Mars 10 million years ago.
  A cosmic catastrophe has created a tunnel in time and space, linking civilizations. Through it, the chosen few enter other worlds, transforming them. But the chosen one renounces his destiny. Who is he: a scholar-linguist steeped in science, an ancient Mayan emperor, a time-bending magician, or an alien being in human form? And who is really writing the Fourth Codex?
  65 million years ago, two parts of a comet destroyed a civilization of intelligent reptiles on Mars and triggered the extinction of the dinosaurs on Earth. Furthermore, the catastrophe created an energy portal in space—the Membrane. Chosen beings—Passers—can travel through it to other worlds and eras. Upon reaching Mars, they take the form of local reptiles, and on Earth, they transform into humans.
  The presence of Passers-by in the past of two worlds can give rise to an alternative historical reality.
  The novel's hero, Yevgeny Kromlekh, is a Passerby. His travels through the Membrane change worlds. In World 1 (our reality), he is a Soviet paleolinguist who deciphered Mayan script. In World 2, he is a famous Russian writer. On Mars, he is the reptilian Blagoy, who leads an empire. In the Mayan world, he is King Kukulkan.
  The heroine of the novel is Ilona Linkova, in world 1 she is the student and lover of Kromlekh, in world 2 she is an intelligence officer of the Russian Empire, and on Mars she is the wife of Blagoy.
  The heroes travel from present-day Earth to Mars ten million years ago. There, in flooded caves, remnants of a Martian civilization exist. From Mars, the heroes arrive in Yucatan during the heyday of the Mayan civilization.
  The novel's plot revolves around the hero's struggle with the secrets of magical organizations, the intelligence services of two worlds, and adventures on Mars—all set against the backdrop of a love story involving all the main characters in all worlds.
  In World 2, due to the Cromlech's past actions, the Aztecs conquered much of Europe and Africa by the 17th century, founding the state of Eastern Aztlan. The New World (Atlantis) is divided among several Native American powers. Furthermore, the Russian Empire, which opposes Aztlan, also holds possession in Northern Atlantis.
  This world perishes as a result of a nuclear conflict in which Cromlech-2 is involved. He realizes the perniciousness of unauthorized changes to history, leaves with Ilona for Mars, from where he returns to Earth's past and attempts to correct what his alter ego has done. The ending gives the heroes hope for reunion and the world a way out of the time loop.
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Новые книги авторов СИ, вышедшие из печати:
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