“Incredible, isn’t it?” Blackburn said.
Two hours later, the bridge disappeared from view as a massive fog bank settled over the Divide, but that night, as they camped near the edge of the cliff, the fog dissipated and revealed crimson lights delineating the bridge’s path across the abyss like some mysterious constellation of shimmering red stars. Despite his distress and his pessimism, Cale felt a surge of something like hope; the bridge and the lights seemed to hold a promise—the promise of better things to come.
Rain fell all morning. When they reached the outskirts of the settlement clustered around the bridge, the ground was muddy, and the gray light and dense drizzle cast a pall over the people and buildings. The huts and shacks were far more numerous here than anyplace Cale had ever seen on this world, but they were just as primitive, and the inhabitants looking out into the rain from doorways and windows appeared to be no better off than those he had encountered over the years.
“You won’t be permitted to take the pony across,” Blackburn said. “But I know where you can sell her.”
“What about Morrigan?”
“I’m authorized to go anywhere with her.” He confidently patted one of the saddle bags. “I’ve got the permit.”
“And for that weapon you’ve got hidden away?”
Blackburn grinned and shook his head. “No one can get that kind of permit. And I don’t have that weapon anymore.”
Blackburn led the way to a sparsely patronized market area, the few customers slogging desultorily among the booths and storefronts. Blackburn and Cale rode to the far corner where two women kept a corral that held a decrepit pony, a pair of longhaired zebra goats, a tannagar wallowing in the mud, and a covey of bedraggled summerhens. Blackburn did the negotiating, and when they left, Cale rode behind him atop Morrigan, his rucksack heavier with a small bag of coins.
They attracted much attention as they headed for the official crossing complex—men and women called out offers to buy or sell as they passed, or invited them into houses or taverns. Blackburn ignored them all except for several child beggars who huddled together against the rain and silently held out plastic cups; he stopped, dropped a handful of coins into the cups, then pressed his knees into Morrigan’s flanks and they rode on.
They emerged from the buildings and entered a wide strip of barren land that formed a buffer between the settlement and the fenced perimeter of the security complex, which was built near the edge of the Divide. Once they’d crossed the strip, Blackburn halted the drayver, who stamped her feet impatiently in the mud. On the other side of the fencing were several buildings constructed of metal, glass, and stone. For Cale they brought back pieces of childhood memories—fragmented images of buildings and vehicles and cities that carried with them a painful sense of loss. Rising out from the center of the complex was the bridge, still magnificent though dull and gray in the misting rain.
“If nothing else,” Blackburn said, “you’ll get a hot shower and your clothes washed. You don’t pass, maybe you can buy back the pony.” He turned around in the saddle and looked at Cale with narrowed eyes. “But you’re going to pass, aren’t you? I don’t believe you have one solitary doubt.”
Cale didn’t reply. Blackburn nodded once, turned, and urged the drayver toward the first gate.
Blackburn seemed to be on friendly terms with most of the security personnel, so the searches and processing were perfunctory. Morrigan was led away, the saddlebags and Cale’s rucksack were searched and scanned, then Blackburn and Cale were escorted into the first building and a room manned by five security officers. Several monitor panels glowed behind the low counter, and Cale became disoriented as more pieces of memory were resurrected—strapped into a couch, a woman beside him, screens such as this displaying text and images in the walls surrounding them; the same woman laughing, holding him on her lap as she squeezed a ball and changed pictures on a table screen. What was her name? San . . . Sind . . . ? No, something else.
Blackburn explained to the security officers that this was Cale’s first time through, that he was an orphan, no idea who his parents were, but that there was a strong possibility he was second generation, or even further removed. The officers had obviously heard such stories before, but with Blackburn they seemed more willing to go along. The tests would make the final determination anyway, the senior officer commented. Even Blackburn, who had his permits and certifications, had to be retested.
They were separated, and Cale was led down a stark corridor to a series of rooms. He did everything he was asked. He stripped, and his clothes and rucksack were taken from him. Next came a burning shower with hot water and sprays of foaming soap, a thorough rinsing, then a second shower. Still naked, he was taken to a small cubicle where a man dressed all in silver scraped some skin from his ear canal, plucked several hairs from his head and several more from his crotch, then finally drew a narrow vial of blood from his arm. He had no idea what any of this was for, but he submitted without a word. After that, his freshly washed clothing and rucksack were returned to him; he dressed and was led to a windowless room furnished only with a chair and cot, and told he would have several hours to wait.
As he lay on the cot, he struggled with the resurfacing memories, images and feelings he had worked for so long to suppress, but which he could no longer keep locked away. What good were the memories? A life long gone, never to be regained. The memories brought only pain and loss, sharp reminders that he had been abandoned here by his father, his family. He did not know what had happened, or why, but that one feeling remained. And his father’s last command, to never reveal the family name. Alexandros. What meaning did that name have here?
He had come from another world, he knew that, from a city perhaps like Morningstar; he had flown through deep space with his father and the woman who cared for him and taught him. Sidonie. Yes, that was her name. Sidonie. His father had sent him off with Sidonie, who had piloted a flying craft that had crashed. More images surfaced—men dragging Sidonie’s body from the wreckage of the crash. Intentionally or not, his father had sent her to her death, and had abandoned him here to people like Petros and Mosca and Walker and Blackburn. Lying on the cot, he asked himself again: what good were any of those damned memories?
Cale slept fitfully. Dreams and memories broke apart and merged with one another, harsh and distressing. He felt relief when he was eventually awakened by a man gently shaking his arm.
“You’re authorized to cross,” the man said, handing him several plasticized documents.
Outside, darkness had fallen and the rain still fell, a heavy drizzle that produced a hissing sound. Blackburn waited for him with Morrigan. “Not a doubt,” he said to Cale with a smile.
They mounted the drayver and rode through a gate, then set forth upon the bridge. The bridge was wide enough for five or six people to walk side-by-side, steep at first as it curved upward and across the dark chasm, but they were alone. The crimson lights were regularly spaced on both sides, glowing clusters of artificial lanterns mounted on metal posts. The surface was a hard gray material that absorbed Morrigan’s steps with only dull, muted thumps, and despite the steepness and rain provided the great beast with enough traction so that her hooves never slipped.
“Three miles across,” Blackburn said. “One of the narrowest points of the Divide. An engineering and construction marvel.” As they rode on, he talked about materials and construction methods, deflector fields and wind harmonics, all of which meant nothing to Cale. Even if he could have understood it, he didn’t care. It was beautiful, but it was just a bridge; more important was that it was a way across the Divide, a way to a new and better life.
Near the midpoint, they encountered two travelers headed west, an older man and woman pulling a wagon loaded with goods hidden and protected by a large tarp. The old woman grinned at them.
“Mister Blackburn,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, Rosalie. Hello, Jack.”
The old ma
n sighed heavily. “Unfortunate,” he said.
“What is?” Blackburn asked.
“That you are still alive.”
Rosalie chuckled and patted Jack’s arm with her gnarled fingers. “Don’t mind Jack,” she told Blackburn. “He holds grudges forever.” Then, still grinning, she pointed a finger at Blackburn. “You’ll get yours, you bastard. And you’ll rot in hell with the rest of us.” She chuckled again. The two of them hoisted the wagon handles and moved on.
As they descended the far slope of the bridge, the town surrounding the terminus became visible, artificial lights marking the streets and buildings, some flashing in bright colors through the rain. And yet, there was a seedy, rundown feel to the place that only increased as they rode nearer, caused not by the steady rain but by some other pervasive quality that seemed to emanate from the buildings, from the streets, from the shadowy figures Cale could now make out moving through the wet night.
As though reading his thoughts, Blackburn pulled Morrigan to a halt just before they reached the end of the bridge and the security gates.
“Civilization,” he said, then snorted. “The town of Karadum. They’ve got power, heat, running water and sewers and working toilets, motor vehicles and computers, and who knows what else, but I have to tell you, Cale, Karadum is no better than what we’ve just come from. Not surprising, when you think about it. Morningstar is one thing. But what kind of people want to make their lives here, trading with the criminals banished to the other side of the Divide? People like Jack and Rosalie, two poisoned and poisonous human beings.”
“People like you?” Cale said.
Blackburn tensed briefly, then slowly relaxed. “Very clever, young Cale. Very clever.” He said no more, and urged Morrigan forward.
Security passed them through after closely inspecting their documents. Most of the soldiers here, too, knew Blackburn, but they were not as friendly with him as those on the other side had been. Cale wondered why, but he was not going to ask.
They rode through one final gate, crossed another buffer zone, and entered the town. They were greeted by taverns and inns and other commercial establishments—Cale wasn’t certain what they all were, since he couldn’t read the signs. People hurried through the rain, crossing the streets, moving in and out of buildings. The roadways were paved, but the surface was cracked, broken by irregular holes filled with water and mud. A four-wheeled, motorized vehicle bounced past them, engine growling.
“Thanks,” Cale said. “You can let me off here. I’ll be fine on my own, now.”
Blackburn shook his head. “You don’t understand this place. It’s not safe for someone like you, especially at night. You’re . . .” He smiled, shaking his head. “You’re an innocent. You’ll be robbed and beaten, and count yourself lucky to be alive in the morning. At least for tonight, stick with me. I know a safe place to stay. Tomorrow, I’ll help you make arrangements to get to Morningstar, assuming that’s where you want to go. I’ll help you get out of here, anyway.”
Cale went along for now, afraid of what Blackburn might do if defied. One thing he was sure of, though—Blackburn was wrong about him. He had lost his innocence a long time ago.
They rode away from the bright colored lights, through streets that grew increasingly dark and quiet, and the rain fell harder. Then they entered another commercial area, the colored lights returning, but more subdued, flickering softly in windows and doorways. Blackburn pulled up in front of a small, two-story building with firelight warming its paned windows, and they dismounted. A young woman came out, greeted them, then took Morrigan’s reins and led her around the corner of the building and toward the back.
“They’ll take good care of her,” Blackburn said. “They always do.”
“What about your bags, all of your things? My bag?”
“They’ll be in our rooms, untouched. Even here in Karadum there are people and places that can be trusted, and this is one of them.”
Inside was warm and dry. Blackburn paid for two rooms, then took Cale into the tavern—ten tables, most of which were occupied. It was quiet, voices low and indistinct. Blackburn ordered the food, and they ate in silence, a meal of soup, bread, and thick slices of meat soaked in a heavy, bitter sauce. Afterward they went up the stairs to their rooms. With amusement, Blackburn showed Cale how the key and lock worked, and the light switch, then remained in the open doorway, watching him.
The room was small, furnished with a bed and nothing else. Cale’s rucksack was on the floor at the foot of the bed. A window looked out onto the street below.
“Morningstar,” Blackburn said. “Is that where you want to go?”
Cale shrugged, then said, “Yes.” Better to give him an answer, he thought.
“In the morning we’ll have breakfast, and then I’ll help you make arrangements. I know some people who can take care of it.”
“All right.” He took hold of the door and stood looking at Blackburn until the big man nodded once and stepped back into the hall. “Thanks,” Cale added, then closed the door, and locked it.
He turned off the light, then went to the window and opened it, letting in the cool fresh air of night and the steady clatter of rain on the streets and rooftops. Two people ran stumbling across the street, laughing and bumping into each other as they tried to avoid the deeper water-filled holes. But once on the other side, they became silent, and walked carefully to a shadowed doorway. One of them opened the door, allowing smoky light to spill out into the street, and they hurried inside, shutting the door quietly but firmly behind them.
He stood at the window for a long time and watched, studying the life of the streets below. People, wagons, carts, ponies, and a few motorized vehicles made their way through the rain; the smell of fish cooked over a fire, the aroma of burning incense very much like what the anchorite had used, and the dank odor of rotting garbage all rose to him from below. The rain let up, but never completely ceased.
He lay in the dark for an hour or more, listening to the sounds drifting in through the open window, then got up from the bed, put on his coat and poncho, picked up his rucksack, and left the room. He stood motionless in the dimly lit hall, afraid Blackburn would appear; when he didn’t, Cale moved quietly down the hall and descended the stairs. The clerk asked for his room key. Cale gave it to him, then stepped out into the humid night.
It was still dark when he reached the outskirts of the town. Here there were no longer clearly marked streets, just well-worn pathways meandering among sparse and dilapidated dwellings that smelled of hopelessness and decay. He picked up his pace, marching through the mud and rain, and soon left even those ruins behind.
He had come all this way on foot—or at least most of the way; a few days on the pony hardly counted—and he saw no reason to stop now. He didn’t need a pony, he didn’t need Blackburn’s “arrangements.” It might take weeks, or months—he had no idea how far it was—but that didn’t matter. There was no hurry. He would walk to Morningstar.
It was night the first time Cale saw the city. For more than an hour a distant glow had been visible in the sky, flickering slightly like some immense fire. When he eventually crested a rise, Morningstar came into full view before him and the glow blossomed, dazzling him with lights that seemed more numerous than the stars above. Crimson lights like those on the bridge across the Divide, but dozens of them moving in and out of darkness and other lights; green and blue lights flashing rhythmically to some unheard beat; stationary lights of gold pulsed in matching patterns; and thousands upon thousands of silver squares, shimmering lights that seemed to hang weightless above the ground, marking the tall, massive buildings at the heart of the city.
Excitement and wonder lifted his heart. Atop the rise he was exposed to a bitter wind, but he hardly noticed it. He was five weeks from Karadum, five weeks from the Divide, but it felt like five years and another world separated him from those places and those times. Smiling to himself for the first time in many, many days, Cale headed towar
d the city.
BOOK TWO
ONE
The moon came up off the slick surface of the canal in deep gold slices, reminding him of the night he’d met Aglaia at the lake shore. Cale stood on deck with both hands on the stern rail, watching the reflections flip and turn and slide in the boat’s wake. They’d just come into the Grand Canal from the river, and when he lifted his gaze he could see the river’s wide flowing current in the moonlight, slowly receding from them as they headed into Morningstar.
Terrel joined him at the stern and leaned against the rail. “You worried about something?” he asked.
Cale shook his head, keeping his eyes on the water and the city reflections that now joined the moon’s in a sparkling kaleidoscope of colors. Then he looked up to see the now familiar lamps and signs and lighted windows lining the canal. He’d been in Morningstar for more than a year, but he still felt a sense of wonderment upon seeing the lights of the city at night. Near the river it was mostly residential, single homes with private docks, patrolled by security drones, shield-shimmers faintly visible in the darkness. As they neared the heart of the city, commercial establishments began to appear, restaurants and retail shops, and the homes gave way to apartment buildings and day roomers. Message streamers floated in the air, multicolored ribbons of neon text and images drifting from one street to the next, a few even gliding out over the canal before transmuting into different messages and reversing course.
A small motorized skiff, less than a third the size of the Skyute and manned by a solitary figure, slid past them on the left, headed out toward the river, breaking up the wake and shattering the patterned reflections. Cale watched the skiff recede from them, then turned to Terrel.
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