The Girl from the Advert

Dusk was settling over a rain-soaked September Moscow, and the city was beginning to change. Lights came on above the buildings to guide delivery drones as they darted back and forth, touching down with orders from the cafés of Kitay-gorod.

Autumn was already making itself felt. Pokrovsky Boulevard was strewn with fallen leaves from its lime trees and poplars, drawing the attention of cleaning robots that swept and vacuumed them up with dogged persistence. Each bore the Reed Industries logo on its side, with the words “Bringing light and technology to the world for twenty years.” Coming the other way along the edge of the pavement was a line of autonomous scooters looking for riders. They kept an even distance between them. A teenager jumped onto one, pressed a button to sign in and shot off, almost hitting a woman with a dog. Without looking up from whatever she was scrolling through on her smart glasses, the woman walked on. Her dog tucked its tail between its legs and pressed against her. One by one, the scooters turned towards a rack beneath a streetlamp, where the charging terminal took them in. An autonomous maglev tram passed the boulevard, an advert for Reed medical technology glowing along its side.

A crowd of tourists was making its way along the boulevard. Their guide told them about the old mansions and, on reaching the end, stopped beside the House with Figures. Some of the visitors, though, were more interested in a handful of drones that could not get past one another and had formed a little traffic jam. Others watched the bright video billboards, whose images changed every few seconds. When the guide had finished, he led his group towards Khitrovskaya Square, and an advert for a fashion label appeared on one of the screens.

On it, a young woman in a cream raincoat walked towards the viewer. A turquoise scarf was loosely tied around her neck, and she wore white boots with broad heels. She stopped, turned halfway round and glanced to one side, showing off AURELIA’s new autumn collection.

The screen flickered, as though the signal had briefly cut out. The model vanished. In her place stood another young woman, taller and dark-haired, wearing the same coat and scarf. She was looking down at her feet rather than ahead, as though judging a jump.

She stepped forward and out of the billboard. Behind her, the screen flickered again and the advert resumed. She landed soundlessly on the wet stone. Alniviya shivered in the cold Moscow wind and looked back. The model was walking across the screen again, as though nothing had happened.

Alniviya looked down at herself. The cream raincoat fitted her perfectly. The turquoise scarf fell in broad folds over her chest. Beneath the coat she wore thin, pale clothes, far too light for the cold evening. On her feet were the same white boots with broad heels the model had been wearing.

How do people wear all this? she thought. It’s so uncomfortable.

A small black bag hung from her shoulder. Alniviya slipped it off and peered inside. It held paper money, a few cards, keys and a flat black object with one smooth glass face. She turned it over in her hands and touched the glass.

It lit up. Numbers appeared, along with a photograph of her. In it, Alniviya stood on a high terrace above a city at dusk. Hundreds of lights glimmered behind her, and a thin band of sunset still lingered on the horizon beneath the dark sky. She wore a long, off-the-shoulder dress the colour of dark gold. Her hair fell loose over her chest. She was looking straight ahead, smiling with such ease that she seemed happy.

Alniviya peered at the photograph in bewilderment.

Is that me? How did I get inside this box?

Afraid that damaging the image might somehow hurt her too, Alniviya carefully touched her own face with a fingertip. The photograph did not change, but a pale strip suddenly appeared at the top, showing a sun and the words “Moscow tomorrow: 21°C, sunny.” She flinched and almost dropped the strange object.

What sort of mirror is this?

A few seconds later, the photograph vanished and the glass went black again.

Alniviya put it back in her bag and raised her head. Take stock of your surroundings before you move: that was what her father had taught her before sending her into this unknown world.

The city gave off a low, steady hum that came from everywhere at once and never ceased. Drone propellers whirred, the brushes of cleaning robots hissed, and the trees rustled as they shed their leaves, sounding nothing like the forests of her native Dyung.

Then Alniviya turned her attention to the people. There were few of them, and each was occupied with something of their own. Farther along, a woman walked a dog while talking to someone invisible. A group on scooters sped past. A young man and woman were sharing one of them.

What curious ways these people have of getting about, Alniviya thought. There’s nothing like this in Strontsia or Feren.

No one paid her any attention. The passers-by went about their business. Nearby, a tram rang its bell at a pedestrian who had stopped in the way. Alniviya flinched and stepped aside, but her heel slipped on the wet stone. She barely kept her balance.

Alniviya was used to placing the ball of her foot down softly before shifting her weight onto it. The boots forced her onto her heels, which struck the stone with a sharp clack. Each step carried far ahead of her. She took three more, then stopped to listen to her own echo.

What strange, noisy shoes, Alniviya grumbled to herself. Back in our forests I’d have been food for a sovropenda by now.

She tried walking on her toes, taking short, careful steps and shifting her weight before the heel could touch the ground. Her legs still moved awkwardly, but at least she could walk this way. Alniviya set off up the boulevard, passing the woman with the dog, who was still deep in conversation with her invisible companion. A young man wearing the same kind of glasses hurried past in the opposite direction. He, too, was talking to someone who was not there.

Alniviya looked after him.

Can the people here really speak to spirits? she wondered.

Watching him, Alniviya failed to notice the cleaning robot approaching. By the time she turned, it was too late. The machine swept close past her, flinging wet leaves and dirty water over her feet. She recoiled towards a tree, her hand going instinctively to her hip—to the weapon belt that was no longer there.

The robot did not stop. It trundled on down the boulevard, sucking up leaves. Alniviya watched it go. Once she was sure no one was looking at her, she discreetly touched the pin in her hair.

“Father, this is a very strange place,” she whispered.

A calm male voice sounded in her head.

“What do you see?”

“Humans live here. But they are strange. They talk to themselves and look into mirrors of some sort. Mechanical beasts roam the streets, and I’m dressed in fabrics I don’t recognise,” Alniviya whispered, trying to loosen the turquoise scarf, which was already beginning to annoy her.

“Humans?” The voice was thoughtful. “Try speaking to someone. There must be taverns where you can learn something. In the meantime, I’ll let our man know to make contact with you.”

Alniviya gave a slight nod and continued along the boulevard. Ahead lay a crossroads. Driverless cars were passing through it. Almost the entire surface of their streamlined bodies shone with a cold, steady light that slid across the wet stone and dazzled her.

She headed purposefully towards the other side of the street. A broad strip beneath her feet lit up green. Alniviya took a step. A sharp double blast from the cars struck her ears. The green light went out and the strip turned red. She stepped back instinctively. A moment later, the headlights of an approaching tram blinded her. It sounded its horn, loudly demanding that she clear the way. She sprang backwards, narrowly missed a puddle and collided with a man standing at the edge of the pavement.

“Careful,” he said, steadying her by the shoulder.

Alniviya immediately pulled away.

“Where can I find a tavern?”

The man stared at her for a few seconds, then smiled in amusement.

“A tavern? You mean a bar?” he asked. “Straight on, then right. There’s a good place there.”

“Thank you,” said Alniviya, and set off in that direction.

The man watched her go, then bent his head over his phone.

The bar occupied the ground floor of a corner building. A narrow illuminated sign glimmered above the entrance, and coloured images of drinks moved slowly across the windowpanes. Their reflections trembled in the puddles alongside the lights of passing cars.

Beyond the heavy door it was warm and noisy. Lamps hung from a low ceiling, people talked at tables, and a long counter ran along the far wall. A large screen above it was showing Overheard in Rybinsk. Alniviya took off her coat, hung it on a rack and sat on an empty stool at the bar. The bartender came over, drying a glass with a towel.

“What can I get you?”

“Ale.”

The bartender gave her a quick look.

“Pale or dark?”

Alniviya considered this for a moment.

“Pale.”

A tall glass, misted with condensation, was set in front of her.

“Four hundred and fifty,” said the bartender.

Alniviya took a hundred-rouble note from her bag and laid it on the counter.

The bartender looked from the money to her in surprise.

“That’s only a hundred roubles.”

Alniviya opened her bag again, sifted through the notes and took out another. This time it was a five-thousand-rouble note.

“Here. I hope this will be enough.”

The bartender took it and reached for the till.

“I’ll get your change.”

“Why? Keep it. I have more,” said Alniviya.

He gave her an even more surprised look, but did not argue.

Alniviya cautiously tasted the ale. The flavour was familiar, though it was colder than she had expected.

Very like the ale in Strontsia.

The taste brought back memories of journeys with her father to the human kingdoms.

A stool creaked beside her. A large, drunken man in an unzipped jacket sat down almost against her and propped an elbow on the counter.

“On your own, gorgeous?”

Alniviya did not answer, still lost in her memories.

The man edged closer and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, say something. I only want to get to know you.”

“Take your hand off me,” Alniviya said, coming back to herself.

He smirked, tightened his grip on her shoulder and tried to turn her towards him.

Alniviya caught his wrist.

He jerked his arm back and tried to grab her with his other hand. Alniviya slid off the stool, letting his hand pass above her shoulder, turned and pulled the arm she was holding downwards. The man lost his balance and struck the counter with his chest, spilling beer.

He tried to fight back, swinging his free hand. Alniviya ducked. His fist passed close to her face. She drove the toe of her boot into his leg just below the knee, and it buckled. He dropped to one knee. Alniviya caught his other wrist, forced both his arms behind his back and pressed his chest against the counter again.

An elbow caught Alniviya’s glass. It fell to the floor and shattered.

The man cried out.

“Enough! Let go!”

Alniviya released him and stepped back.

He got up and made to come at her again, but changed his mind when he met her eyes. Grunting and rubbing his arms, he returned to his seat in the far corner of the bar.

Without a flicker of concern, the bartender began wiping the spilled ale from the counter. A small cleaning robot suddenly rolled out from beneath it. It swept the broken glass into its casing and set to work on the floor with its rotating brushes.

Alniviya gave a startled cry and snatched her feet away.

“You’re acting like you’re not from round here,” said the bartender.

Alniviya sat back down.

“What makes you say that? I’m from Strontsia. Have you heard of it?”

“Strogino?” The bartender brightened. “I’m from Mitino. We’re practically neighbours.”

“It’s beautiful there,” Alniviya replied dreamily, not understanding what he meant.

The bartender smiled and set a fresh glass in front of her to replace the one she had spilled.

“On the house.”

Alniviya looked at him, then gave a brief nod.

“Thank you.”

The episode ended on the screen above the bar. The news titles appeared, followed by a presenter.

“Reed Industries recently celebrated its twentieth anniversary,” he said. “What began as an idea for compressing light has become a company known on every continent. Its innovations have made Russia one of the world’s technological leaders, given a powerful boost to the economy and greatly strengthened the country’s defences.”

A title appeared on the screen: “Reed Industries—Twenty Years of Light.”

An enormous titan slowly lowered a bridge truss onto its supports. The next shot showed a mobile medical unit at work in a small, remote village.

“This is Reed light technology in action,” the voice-over continued. “Machines that build, save lives and protect.”

Alniviya lowered her glass and began watching the report out of the corner of her eye.

The screen showed archive footage from the 2000s: a student hall of residence, sheets covered in technical drawings, a small student laboratory and the first prototype of a soliton cassette.

“Reed Industries founder Rafael Rodiev grew up in a family of power engineers in the Urals. In the late 2000s, he created the soliton cassette—a device that made it possible to contain and store the energy of light.”

A man in a formal suit appeared. Beneath him ran a caption: “Rafael Rodiev—Founder of Reed Industries.”

The report continued. Factories, laboratories, titans, rescue vehicles and drones passed across the screen. Then the presenter spoke about passing the work on to the next generation. A young man appeared, working in a laboratory on a new model of the soliton cassette.

“At just twenty-three, the founder’s son, Iriaz Rodiev, has already shown himself to be every bit as gifted as his father. He is now working on new projects for the corporation.”

When the bartender’s attention was elsewhere, Alniviya discreetly touched the pin in her hair.

“They’re here, Father,” she whispered.

Alniviya had not noticed a tall man in a navy-blue blazer take the seat beside her. Unlike the other customers, he sat upright and composed. For a few seconds the stranger watched the screen in silence. The report on Reed Industries was still playing.

“You shouldn’t speak of that in front of strangers,” he said quietly, with a distinct Australian accent, and glanced at the bartender.

Alniviya turned sharply towards him.

“Who are you?”

The stranger met her gaze calmly.

“My name is Alfred Lloyd. I’m a friend of your father’s.”