by Dennis Foon
These people, the Absent, had homes once, families. Dignity. They lost it all and now they worship the image of his sister. Was this what Saint saw himself fighting against? Saint and Kira had been the children of people like these, turned from their homes and killed—whether by the sword or by the slow rot of despair, did it matter? Roan is on a mission to save children, special children, but don’t the children of these people also deserve to be freed?
The bespectacled man opens a ramshackle gate tucked in the recess of a crumbling stucco wall. He pushes his cart through and the group follows. Dobbs leads the pony and Mejan takes up the rear. With a quick look behind, she swings the gate closed. In the center of an asphalt courtyard stands a featureless white concrete cube. Roan and Lumpy stop, puzzled.
“Don’t just stand and stare. Tie up the horse and come inside,” the little man says, motioning at a hitching post. He touches a corner of the cube a half dozen times in an intricate pattern. There’s a click and a panel flips open, providing just enough space for them to enter.
The room within is as nondescript as the exterior. Two other rumpled, bespectacled workers in green fatigues stand by the opposite wall, gawking at them. One is tall and hunched over, the other’s face is covered in freckles and she’s wiggling a finger in her ear.
Kamyar grins. “It’s good to see you Gunthers again. Gunther Number Six, we are grateful for your timely—”
“Take off your masks,” orders the bespectacled man, with no trace of hospitality.
“Even me?” asks Lumpy.
“Even you.”
They all obey, though Roan can see Lumpy’s more than a little uncomfortable.
“There are only supposed to be four of you,” the small man says.
“That’s true, but the guests I’ve brought are somewhat illustrious,” says Kamyar. “Allow me to introduce Mabatan.”
The Gunthers all peer over their glasses for a better look. “Well. Well, well. So you do exist.”
“For now,” Mabatan replies. “As you do, Gunther Number Six. And you are?” she inquires of the tall, ungainly Gunther.
“Gunther Number Fourteen, at your service,” he says as he shambles forward.
The Gunther with the freckles removes her finger from her ear and nods. “Gunther Number Seventy-Nine.”
“There are more of you than I thought,” says Mabatan.
“Ninety-six in total,” states Gunther Number Fourteen. “Who are the other two that were not invited?”
“You can call me Lumpy. And by the way, I’m not contagious.”
“We know,” says Gunther Number Six. After conferring excitedly with Numbers Fourteen and Seventy-Nine, Number Six squints at Roan suspiciously. “And him?”
A little smile plays across Kamyar’s lips. “Roan of Longlight.”
The Gunthers step closer to Roan, their faces tilting all around him. He realizes that rather than looking directly at him, their eyes are flitting between him and the surface of their eyeglasses. “Are the glasses some kind of scanner?” Roan inquires, fascinated.
“Yes, they are,” confirms Gunther Number Six. “And they verify that you are Roan of the Parting’s great-grandson. We were under the impression you had left the known world. You are not safe here in the City.”
“I’ve come seeking my sister. I need to see her in person. To speak with her.”
The three Gunthers look at each other, seemingly absorbed in silent communication. The troupe also remains uncharacteristically mute as Roan awaits an answer. It is Gunther Number Seventy-Nine who finally speaks. “What you ask may be impossible.”
“Because of security?” asks Roan.
“Because she may be dead,” replies the Gunther. “Our last observation of her indicated that she’s had a neurological crisis, consistent with stroke.”
“She was in some kind of pain,” Roan says in affirmation.
“You sensed her thoughts?”
“No,” Roan admits. “Not thoughts, feelings. Confusion. Distress. Fear.”
The Gunthers look grimly at each other. “Your sister’s body would not be allowed to be wasted. She could have died a physical death, but parts of her would be kept alive.”
Roan’s eyes dart from one to the other, panic rising. “What parts?”
“Most certainly her brain. We could try to locate it.”
Roan leans against the wall, his hands pressed against his face, fighting despair.
“The Gunthers do not truly know. They like to make guesses. Dark, troubling guesses. They do not know for sure.” Mabatan’s words would be more comforting if Roan hadn’t felt Stowe’s suffering, then lost her presence after that last sharp, terrible pain. What if these people are right?
Kamyar scowls at the Gunthers. “Perhaps it would be possible to acquire some accurate information. Hunches and guesswork do not further anyone’s objectives.”
“Guesses are the building blocks to theory. Theory leads to the discovery of fact.”
“Might we move right on to the discovery phase, then? Please.”
The Gunthers share a sour look, then agree grudgingly. “Very well. We will not share our hypotheses, only the facts. If we find any.”
Standing in the courtyard with the rest of the troupe, Roan scans the sky above the wall, searching. He hasn’t seen a bird, or a bug for that matter, since his arrival in the City. Could it be that no life other than human exists here?
Talia hands him a brush. “Here. You’re even making me nervous.”
“Sorry. Do you have a name for her?” Slipping his hand over the brush, Roan begins to groom the shaggy, dappled pony.
Talia laughs. “Many. When she’s acting high and mighty and won’t condescend to pull the cart, she’s Marie Antoinette. If she’s feisty and refuses all reason, we call her Joan of Arc. Elegant and beautiful like she is right now: Queen Nefertiti. Mejan once owned a dog and when she misses it, Nefertiti becomes Fido.”
“My name for her’s Black Beauty,” says Dobbs.
“But she’s brown and covered in spots,” protests Lumpy.
“Yeah, I can see that, but I’ve read the book some twenty-two times.”
“You must really like it.”
“It was the only book in my village. I found it buried in the floor of my grandpa’s house. I used it to teach myself to read, best I could.”
“You can imagine his reaction when he saw Orin’s hoard,” says Kamyar. “Couldn’t drag him out of the Oasis library for weeks. Truth be told, it’s still a little difficult trying to pry him out of those comfy chairs.”
Dobbs flashes a toothy grin. Mabatan, who’s been gently stroking the pony’s muzzle, looks up at them. “Her true name is Shanah.”
Talia and Mejan gasp, “You mean it?”
Mabatan shrugs. “Next time the pony acts like Marie Antoinette, call her Shanah. You’ll see.”
“Shanah,” Dobbs murmurs. The pony snorts and nuzzles him. Dumbfounded, Dobbs scratches her behind the ear.
Gunther Number Seventy-Nine appears in the doorway. “The adjustment for the additional three has been completed. Dinner is served. Fact.”
“And blessed be the theory that led to it. I’m starving,” Kamyar replies.
“Judging from the surroundings, I’m afraid to feel too hopeful,” Lumpy grumbles under his breath as they enter the uninviting cube. There are no tables or chairs, and there is certainly no food, not even the smell of it.
“Sit,” says the Gunther. Talia shrugs and plops down on the cement floor. The others follow suit. Gunther Number Seventy-Nine stands by the wall, a genial look on her face, but does nothing.
Lumpy nudges Roan. “Think they’re bringing the food in from outside?”
“Guess again,” says Kamyar, as a low rumble vibrates through the foundation of the small room.
Roan attunes his senses, trying to determine if they’re in danger. But there is no immediate threat, as far as he can tell. He watches as the ceiling recedes further and further. “This must be an
elevator!” Roan exclaims, delighted.
“Of a fashion,” confirms Gunther Number Seventy-Nine. “This structure was called a ‘pay parking facility.’ Every family would receive a small coupon to store their gasoline vehicle on one of these floors.”
“Why go to the trouble?” asks Lumpy.
“Vehicles without coupons were towed away at the driver’s expense and taken to vehicle cemeteries,” replies the Gunther.
“Graveyards for machines?” Lumpy sounds skeptical.
“It’s logical,” replies the Gunther. “People were very emotionally attached to their automobiles.”
Suddenly, the troupe’s eyes widen with a hunger that has nothing to do with food. The object of their wistful sighs is obvious as Roan takes in the entirely new level revealed below them: a vast library of what must be thousands of books.
“Do you think we might make a brief stop?” Kamyar implores. “It’s our favorite room.”
“Food is waiting.” The Gunther’s tone suggests that no amount of begging will dissuade her.
This is by far the greatest collection of books Roan’s ever seen, much larger even than the one at Oasis. “How did you acquire a library like this?”
“We do what we must. We need to read,” states the Gunther. “Reading feeds our compulsion to make things.”
A collective groan of disappointment accompanies the library’s rapid disappearance. Roan guesses Gunther Number Seventy-Nine is in for an afternoon of haranguing from the frustrated bookworms.
On the next floor down, Gunthers oversee massive spinning cylinders, shuttle metal boxes to and fro, hover over squares of thick glass that shimmer with symbols and opaque images, and pour clear, steaming fluid from vats into molds.
“What is that material?” Roan asks.
“Something we’ve developed. Almost weightless, pliable, heat resistant, and if we want it to be, impenetrable.”
“Do the Masters know about it?”
“Oh, yes. They use it for security windows.” Gunther Number Seventy-Nine points to a chest plate being woven and pressed from transparent filaments. “And armor. But it has many other possible applications.”
“And what are those?” Roan points to the illuminated glass squares.
“We’re great collectors of antique garbage. You’d be surprised how many of those we find in ancient landfills. Thousands. And they’re so very, very useful.”
At this, Gunther Number Seventy-Nine becomes preoccupied with her glasses, leaving Roan to contemplate these fascinating and bizarre people. He wonders about the nature of the Gunthers’ allegiance to the Masters, and to what extent they share their technological expertise with them.
With a shudder, they arrive at the third level. The group steps off and is greeted by Gunther Number Six, who ushers them through a huge crop of fruits and vegetables that grow under bright lamps.
“Fact: dinner awaits your consumption on table number three.”
Kamyar pats his stomach as he greedily assesses the green salad, steamed broccoli and cauliflower, tomatoes, and large bowls of noodles. “What wondrous synchronicity to find the table so full and my belly so empty!”
It’s a greater variety of fresh food than Roan’s had the privilege to enjoy in a long time. “Number Six, how do you manage to keep this place hidden right here in the heart of the City?”
“We have designed many safeguards that give us warnings, but we rarely use them. Invisibility is our best defense.”
“How do you become invisible?”
“We are Gunthers, idiot savants of the City. We stumble through their streets, live in their worst slums, speak only in grunts. They believe our brains are genetically damaged and our eyes weak, so they do not covet our children. We are harmless and feeble-minded. They trust us with the task of maintaining the energy grid because most other workers have the misfortune of dying when they come into contact with it, but we seem to have a thick-headedness that makes us impervious to the dangers. We are reviled, the butt of jokes, taken for granted. This blinds them to us. Thus, we become invisible.”
Lumpy looks around at the huge room. “How long have you been doing this?”
“We’re the fifth generation. Our ancestors came to the City after the Parting.”
“Gunthers were one of the Four?” asks Roan.
“We were,” says the Gunther.
Roan’s breath catches in his throat. There were four groups at the Parting, each agreeing to leave and start a new society. His great-grandfather Roan led one to found Longlight. The second group created the cavern city of Oasis, where many of the Dirt Eaters live. Haron, an elder of Oasis, told him there were two other groups who had gone into deep cover. How much deeper could you go than directly under the nose of your enemy?
“Are there Dirt Eaters among you?” asks Roan.
“No. But we have agreed to smuggle out Dirt to Oasis.”
“And provide them with information about what’s going on here,” suggests Lumpy.
“We speak with the Storytellers, but it’s doubtful they require what we offer. They have their own means of obtaining information.”
“And the fourth group. Do you know where they went?” asks Roan.
The Gunther’s usually placid expression grows sad. “We never discovered their location. Darius, however, did. Forty years ago, he released a plague upon them, causing their annihilation. We later confirmed that an epidemic killed thousands in the Farlands.”
They share a grim look. Without question, the two surviving groups, Oasis and the Gunthers, would face the same fate if Darius found them.
Gunther Number Fourteen enters from a stairway on the other side of the tomato crop and comes to them. “Information. Our Stowe is alive.”
Roan’s stomach churns. “Is she alright?”
“According to our sources, she is in perfect physical condition.”
“How can I reach her?” Roan asks urgently.
“She is scheduled to attend your performance at the Consolidation Festival.”
Kamyar’s face is taut. “Sharpen minds and needles, my friends. Where Our Stowe goes, so go the clerics.”
“And so go I,” whispers Roan.
DIAGNOSIS
RE: INCURSION ON FORESIGHT ACADEMY.
DATE: YEAR 31 OF THE CONSOLIDATION.
SUBJECT: ARCHITECT AUGUST FERRELL.
ALL 74 BLUEPRINTS, DRAWINGS, AND PLANS RECOVERED FAIL TO REVEAL THE LOCATION OF THE HIDDEN COMMUNITY OF THE RENEGADE HARON.
—ECCLESIASTICAL ARCHIVES
DOCTORS HOVER AROUND STOWE. They evaluate information, then consult anxiously over the wires and tubes that link her limbic, circulatory, and endocrine systems to hardware.
She tries to quiet the weeping in her head. It’s hard to believe that they cannot hear it. Even if the machines were to find something, she’s sure they’d never identify it as a persistent wail echoing in her skull. Only she can hear that. Only she can feel its torment. Perhaps it is not real at all. What if she’s imagining it? What if she’s going mad? Darius must not, under any circumstances, find out.
“Is this really necessary, Father?”
The Great Seer, standing by the window with Willum, shakes his head. “It’s possible, dearest Stowe, that you have suffered a stroke. I’m afraid this is a matter for doctors to decide.”
“Was it something that happened on the journey?” probes Stowe.
“The monitors detected nothing, but it appears there may have been a malfunction.”
Dr. Arcanthas bows his head to the Eldest. “All her vital signs are better than perfect. If anything, she’s stronger than before. There are, of course, fluctuations in her endocrine system, but...”
“But?” snaps Darius with thinly veiled impatience.
“In a girl of her age, fluctuations of this nature are typical. Our Stowe’s are perhaps of a more extreme, uh, that is, I should say... extravagant nature. No surprise, as all her graces are thus multiplied.”
Darius’s e
yes sparkle. Maliciously? “You are becoming a woman, Stowe.”
An ocean of unspent grief for the loss of her mother overcomes Stowe. One small tear escapes before she manages to forge a dam behind her eyes. With a Herculean effort, Stowe manages to give Darius a small smile.
“There, there, daughter. It will serve only to increase your power. It is good news, good news indeed.”
Dr. Arcanthas interjects with a predictable suggestion. “A few more days of tests may reveal more. Perhaps a probe—”
“Enough tests!” growls Stowe, with an edge that forces the doctor a few rabbit hops backwards.
Willum, taking his most conciliatory tone, addresses the Eldest. “If I may be so bold, Keeper. Rest, fresh air, and a temporary withdrawal of Dirt may be the best treatment.”
Stowe casts her most evil eye at the doctor and delights to watch him sputter nervously. “I... I definitely can see the wisdom in that.”
“Yes,” condescends Darius. “I’m sure you can.”
“Perhaps... she could attend some of the festivities celebrating the Consolidation. The many pageants and masques might serve to amuse her,” suggests Willum.
“Oh, Father, might I go? I’ve always wanted to see those things.” Maybe she could get away from this. All of it. Escape for a while.
The only way to escape Darius is to kill him.
The Eldest ponders Stowe’s request. “She’ll be swarmed. She’s in no condition to make public appearances.”
“I’ll go in disguise.”
“I cannot allow you into the streets of the City without security.”
“Willum will accompany me... won’t you, Willum?” Stowe begs.
“He alone would be poor defense should you come under attack.”
“Let the clerics come. They just have to give us a wide berth so I’m not identified.”
Before Willum can give his assent, Master Querin appears at the threshold. The very presence of the Master of Inculcation causes a shudder to sweep through the room. Responsible for every image and word dispensed by the Masters of the City, Querin is second in power only to the Great Seer and feared by all. With a voice like a whip and eyes that could pierce stone, he addresses Darius just above a whisper. “Archbishop, you’re required.”