by Kage Baker
They came to the very end of the long passage, far from the light, and Marco groped in the shadows and dust. “She ought to be around here somewhere,” he said. He pulled out a box, peered at the name. “No . . .”
Edward, lad, this is where we do it. He can’t get away to either side!
I know. Let him find her first.
“Hold on,” grunted Marco, dropping into a crouch. “Here she is, down on the floor.”
Now, son, now!
“The Botanist Mendoza,” said Marco with satisfaction, pulling out a box.
It was no more than three feet long.
Nicholas moaned, and Alec hid his mouth with his hands. Edward stared, unbelieving: but there was the brass plate, and as Marco brushed the dust away Edward saw plainly that the name engraved on it was mendoza.
“I’d almost forgotten she was back here,” said Marco, wiping off cobwebs. “She got too dangerous to work on. I don’t think I’ve touched her in the last nine centuries, to be honest.”
“H-how long?” said Edward.
Marco looked up into his white face.
An infinite second passed. Edward could hear the Captain cursing, in a really astonishing way for an artificial intelligence. There’d been confusion over the transit entry date, hadn’t there? Take your best guess, he’d told the Captain.
“Ohh,” Marco said, as his eyes began to fill with horrific mirth. “Now I know who you are.”
Edward, for God’s sake shoot him!
But Edward, just at that moment, wanted to die.
“You’re her mortal lover,” said Marco, gloating. “Oh, yes, I know about you. I get all their life stories, you know, in our long sessions together. All the intimate details. All the little secrets. I open their hearts, you could say, I get to know them all so well. I knew her! Would you like to know how intimately?
“Look, here she is.” He grinned, holding up the box. “Still waiting for you. Quite a romantic rendezvous, isn’t it?” His eyes went wide suddenly.
“And you’re—My God. You’re the Hangar Twelve Man, too, aren’t you?” The laughter died out of his face, to be replaced with a sort of stern and holy joy, far more terrible to see. He rose slowly from his crouch, gripping the box tight.
“At last,” he said. “Oh, God of Battles, at last! You know what I was created for, little brother? To punish the wicked. To bring justice to the slaughterers of innocents. That was my work. They took away my work and set me here, carving parts off these poor things that never did any real evil in their lives, compared to the likes of you! The only mistake this one ever made was to save your life, so you could take the bomb to Mars Two. And she suffered for it, while you got away. But here you are, now. Delivered into my hands.”
He advanced on Edward through the darkness, his eyes glowing. Alec whimpered; Edward backed away unsteadily. Marco’s voice had dropped to a croon, soft and hypnotic.
“You can’t live with it, can you? That’s really why you came here. You know you deserve to lie on one of these shelves beside her. Think of the families who died in Mars Two, the colonists, their little children, think of what went through their heads when they looked up, and saw the mountain opening in a gout of fire, and knew there was nowhere they could possibly run. Three thousand mortal souls. Oh, little brother, how that must eat at your heart. You were made with a conscience, you’re a good man. You’re so very sorry, but you can never be sorry enough, can you?”
No, gasped Alec, No, he’s right—I should have died—
“I know how it hurts. You need me, little brother. I’m the only one who can set it right. Come and be punished, boy. I’ll keep you alive, you can’t imagine how long, long enough to know what they felt, every one of them. We’ll see they get justice, you and I. Come now. Come to my arms.”
Alec lurched toward him convulsively. Edward and Nicholas felt their retreat arrested by his forward movement.
COMMANDER BELL-FAIRFAX! YOU DAMNABLE COWARD, FIRE ON THE ENEMY! roared a voice like a cannon blast in Edward’s ear. The blowpipe was in his hand. The dart flew straight at Marco’s throat, unprotected above his left arm that still clutched Mendoza’s coffin.
It never got there. Too fast to be seen, Marco’s right hand intercepted it. He opened his fist and stared down at the little dart, driven into his palm by the force of his grab.
“What the hell was this supposed to be?” he said, chuckling. “What did you imagine would take me down? Curare? Boomslang venom? Cyanide? No, no.” He flicked it to the floor. “I’m an immortal, you fool.” He held up his palm, displaying the bright drop of blood that welled there. As Edward’s gaze was pulled to it the hand shot forward, faster than a cobra striking, and caught Edward’s right wrist. Marco twisted it. There was the sound of bone snapping. He did not let go but barreled forward, dragging Edward writhing and struggling behind him, out through the shelves, battering him semiconscious against them as they went. Alec and Nicholas were pulled after Edward like insubstantial shadows, though each felt the pain like a spike driven through his own wrist.
“Move over, Grigorii Efimovitch,” Marco said, shoving the table’s occupant to one side. “I’ve got bigger fish to fry than you now!” He swung Edward up on the table and Nicholas was helpless there beside him, cursing and fighting without effect, and Alec lay panting on the other side. He looked up into a ghastly parody of his own face, into his own cold pale eyes.
Edward, rallying, drew back his boot for a savage kick. Marco caught his foot easily and gripped, and there was another snapping sound. Edward threw his head back in a snarl of agony. A knife appeared in his left hand and sped toward Marco’s left eye. Marco deflected it, lifting Mendoza’s coffin like a shield.
“We can go two ways here,” Marco said. “I can put you in restraints, or I can, I can paralyze you temporarily.” He frowned and blinked. “Or I could just hurt you until . . . until I . . . I mean, you . . . Oh, no.”
He let go Edward’s foot and looked at the tiny wound in his palm. He dragged his gaze up from it to stare reproachfully at Edward.
“Deceit,” said Marco. He coughed. “You were from them after all, weren’t you? They found a toxin that works . . . Watch, little brother. They get you, too, always betray their slaves. We foun’ out. You n’ I . . . you and I—”
His eyes became stony, his face like a mask. He sagged heavily forward, dropping Mendoza’s coffin. It fell to the floor with a crash. His breath rattled in his throat. Edward got his other foot up and shoved as hard as he could, and Marco pitched backward like a tower falling. Dust rose from his impact.
Edward hoisted himself up, painfully, awkwardly on his left arm, and rolled off the table. He landed on the little coffin, with Alec and Nicholas sprawling beside him. Turning, Edward stretched out and cradled the coffin in his arms. He drew a long harsh breath; choked on a sob and began to weep.
The sound of their grief rose into the dim corners of the warehouse and drowned out the creaking of the treadmill, where all those arms and legs pedaled so frantically toward Judgment Day.
You done it, son. I’m bringing the agboat round to the door for you. All you got to do—
“What’s the point, you idiot machine?” shouted Edward. “What’s left now? We failed her!”
Belay that. She’s still alive, ain’t she? You think she can’t be brought back? Weren’t you listening to the old monster? Damn yer eyes, get up and go to that cabinet yonder! I want what’s in there.
Edward growled but struggled to his knees. With effort he stood, balancing on his unbroken foot, blinking through blood from a scalp wound. Alec and Nicholas rose with him. Together they hobbled across to the file cabinet. A–M, read the label on the upper drawer. Edward pulled it open with his left hand and beheld a row of slim steel cases, each with its neat label. After a groggy perusal he found the one bearing Mendoza’s name. He fumbled it out.
There were three things in the case. One was a slender silver cylinder, strangely cold to the touch. One was a small electro
nic component of some kind, crusted with something unnervingly like dried blood. The last item was a sheaf of bound parchment. Edward drew it out, and Alec and Nicholas peered over his shoulder at it.
They beheld diagrams, schematics, drawings done in the style of Da Vinci of a naked girl in various stages of disassembly and reassembly, with representations of biomechanical implants and prostheses. Measurements, calculations, formulae. The girl was recognizably Mendoza, though as she might have looked just entering adolescence. Nicholas’s hands were trembling.
“This is hard copy,” said Alec wonderingly, in a little high stoned voice.
Aye. Her file was purged from the system when she was sent here. She ain’t supposed to exist no more. This is the only record left. Take it, and take that tube. But mind you ditch the component! That’s her datafeed to the Company surveillance banks. They’d be able to trace her anywhere that went.
With an expression of loathing, Edward tossed the component into a corner of the warehouse and stuffed the papers back into the file case with the tube. He tucked it under his arm.
Come on, now, the boat’s at the door. All you got to do is walk across the room, son.
They tottered back toward the table. As they passed Marco his left hand jerked, fingers clawing.
You see? Nothing kills them. Let’s be off, afore he can get the other hand working again.
Clumsily, Edward bent to scoop up the coffin. They got to the boat with it before his legs gave way. He was just able to set the coffin in the back and tumble in over the side before he blacked out. Alec fell beside him, unresponsive. Only Nicholas was left conscious as the agboat rose and sped away to the sea and the ship, under strange stars. He lay staring up at them, too numb to pray in thanks or lamentation to a God whose ways passed all understanding.
When the agboat settled into its place on deck, Nicholas rose to his knees unsteadily, using Alec’s battered body; then he dropped forward, sprawled on the deck and did not move again. Out of the shadows came the skull-headed servounits, crawling swiftly.
Billy Bones and Flint lifted Alec’s body between them, and hurried off with him to the ship’s infirmary. Bully Hayes climbed into the agboat and emerged a moment later with Mendoza’s coffin and records case. As it scuttled after the others, the Captain Morgan was tacking around, powering up, setting every stitch of canvas she had for a run through the ancient night. She leaped away across dark water, and the sulphurous and shifting light diminished off her starboard bow and finally was lost.
ANOTHER MORNING
IN 2317 AD
Joseph was marching along a road far to the south of Mount Tamalpais, focusing his attention on the great domed rock that rose from the sea ahead of him.
It was a picturesque rock and probably would have held his attention anyway. A poet of that country once called it a stone cloud, shot through with rattlesnakes like lightning; the Spanish explorers had been content to describe it as looking like a Moor’s turban. There was something about it that did evoke Arabian Nights tales and the music of Rimsky-Korsakov, as it sat there on its blue bay. You half expected djinns to come barreling across the sky and plant a palace on its distant height.
This had never happened, of course. Something else had been planted up there, though, no less fantastic, by no less extraordinary a creature.
Joseph marched on steadily toward it, foot in front of foot in front of foot, because he had a feeling that if he stopped for a second or even took his eyes off it he’d never be able to keep going. So on down the highway he went, and the rock rose bigger and more portentous against the bright sky with every minute.
It was afternoon when he came to the unremarkable little harbor town that looked out on the rock, dwarfed in its shadow. He loitered there a while, wandering the waterfront as though admiring the pleasure boats, pretending to contemplate the memorial engraved with the names of drowned fishermen, and making his slow but inevitable progress out along the muddy causeway that led to the rock.
Here Joseph passed it and settled for a while on the breakwater at the harbor bar, out beyond the tolling buoys, where he watched the sunset like any tourist. As he suspected, he had to force himself to get up when it became dark enough for what he had to do. The lights of the little town were warm and inviting. He wanted terribly badly to go back there and find a cozy mortal place to relax in, even if all they served was mineral water; but the rock loomed above him.
So he climbed it, which was what he had come all that way to do.
What he was doing was strictly illegal, of course, and desperately foolhardy for a mortal. Morro Rock had killed its share of would-be climbers. It was also a breeding sanctuary for any number of protected seabirds, which added moral consequences to his trespass. Joseph had no intention of stealing birds’ eggs, however.
Up he went through the darkness, crawling flat in the worst places, groping on hands and knees where he could. A long cold nightmarish while later he staggered upright in a fairly level spot, and looked down on what seemed like half the kingdoms of the world spread out before him, though in fact it was only San Luis Obispo Protectorate.
“Wow,” said Joseph, aloud to himself. “So, here I am. No Tempter’s going to rise up at my elbow and offer me big bucks not to do this, huh? Cut me a deal?” He looked around in disgust. “Who am I kidding? I’ve always been the tempter. It’s a little late to change sides now.”
From his coat he withdrew the tool he’d brought with him and considered it. It was an ordinary gardening trowel and looked ridiculously inadequate for the task he faced. He sighed and shrugged.
It took more nightmarish groping around on the rock’s vast dome before Joseph located what he sought: a flat stone the size of a grand piano, partially buried. He had to move lesser rocks (though not much lesser) and scrape away a great deal of gravel before he could even begin to dig with his trowel, which did turn out to be ridiculously inadequate for the task. There was a faint line of dawn visible in the east by the time he had freed enough of the stone to attempt to move it. His first effort did not meet with success, exactly.
“Holy smoke!” he gasped, eyes popping in his head with the strain. He let go the stone and staggered backward. Joseph was a Rogue Cyborg, after all, not a Man of Steel. He stood there panting a moment, clutching himself.
“I bet you just picked up the damn thing like it was a sofa cushion, didn’t you, Father?” he said sourly. Receiving no answer from the weary night, he drew a deep breath and tried again. After a long moment the stone lifted free, breaking its seal of earth, and Joseph was able to push it up and away from what lay beneath it.
But it was another moment before he could bring himself to gaze down at what he had come so far to find.
It looked like a big shipping crate of polished aluminum, smooth-edged and smooth-sided as an ice cube. He could only just make out the line of its lid. No hinges were visible at all. There was no dust, no evidence that it had lain there five centuries rather than five minutes.
Joseph stared, and trembled.
“Gee, that’s a big one,” he said, a little too loudly. “I don’t think I’ve ever traveled in one that big. Sure is in great shape, though.”
Nobody replied. The east grew lighter.
“Well,” said Joseph, “no point putting it off, I guess.”
He reached down into the hole and tried the lid of the crate, which flipped up smoothly at his touch, revealing an interior as smooth and cold-looking as its exterior. Four men Joseph’s size could have rested in there comfortably. He seemed anything but comfortable, however, as he climbed in and lay down. In fact, his face was a mask of barely controlled panic. He reached up and worked subtle instruments. The lid fell and sealed without a sound.
The next moment the crate was gone as though it had never existed. Was there a spark of something in the fathomless air for a second, so far out as to catch the light of a sun that had not yet come around the curve of the Earth? There might have been.
STILL LAT
ER THAT SAME EVENING IN 300,000 BCE
When the spinning stopped, when the lid popped, Joseph lay still and let the stasis gas dissipate in the night. No breeze. When was this night? No stars he recognized, and the gas rose slowly, heavily in the damp warm air.
But he knew where he was. Budu had told him what it would be like.
Joseph forced himself up out of the crate, peering around. Fading night, but not toward the same dawn he’d left a few seconds ago. He stepped away from the crate and walked forward. How far back had he gone? Far enough for the air to smell different, far enough for the sea to smell different, too. Subtle differences but there. And an acrid, nasty smell. Chemicals. And—?
He was focusing on the smells to avoid the sights, which were . . . what he had expected. At one corner of the warehouse wall was something he hadn’t expected to see, though: a generator device, wheels and belts and pulleys and other things. When he got close enough to it to see what the other things were, Joseph backed up a step as though someone had physically pushed him. His lips drew back from his teeth.
He stood there motionless a long moment, watching the arms and legs going round and round, pumping and hammering. Finally he said something, a word in a language so old he was the only person living who remembered it, so there would be no point in repeating it here. Its meaning, however, would not be translated as “Abomination,” or “Horror,” or “Alas!”; it would be better rendered as “My eyes are open.”
Then Joseph marched on under the terrible engine, his own arms and legs carrying him along as determined as clockwork.
He rounded the corner and passed the broken-down old couch, he saw the sign reading BUREAU OF PUNITIVE MEDICINE and went straight in without pause.