City at the End of Time

by Greg Bear

  Had he made a mistake, eliminating the Chandler?

  Reaching out, he could feel as many as three small birds in his vicinity—almost certainly three—though one seemed odd, not what he might have expected. Of the other two, from long experience, he was sure he knew their habits, their concerns and fears, their needs.

  A darker air was arriving. Max Glaucous could feel it in his light, lucky fingers. Long dreaded, long awaited—destruction, followed by freedom—an extraordinary conclusion to his troubles.

  Three sum-runners.

  Whitlow will join us. And the Moth. They cannot do this without me. Finally—my reward.

  And my release.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  Wallingford

  Trying to contain his churning, liquid misery, Daniel walked spastic. The sidewalk, old and gray and cracked, presented a rolling course of uneven obstacles. He leaned to the right on Sunnyside Avenue, grimly determined to make it home. He was ashamed. Daniel had always been the driver of his own soul, in control on the highways and byways of the fibrous multiverse. Now—he could barely keep from fouling his pants.

  The neighborhood had not changed so much that he could spot the differences. In truth, he had never closely observed the houses more than a few doors away from his own. In his present hurry, there was no time to put together a catalog of obvious changes.

  The sun slanted. This sick new body wore no watch and carried no keys; despite Daniel’s patting and thrusting, he could not find a key in all those pockets nor in the knapsack—but both he and his new body agreed, as they approached the concrete steps, the peaked porch roof and square tapered pillars, this was where they lived, this was where they hung whatever shingle they owned.

  His house. The same house. That much was the same, thank the powers that be.

  Whatever powers care to take credit for any of my madness. And what about the sum-runners?

  The lawn stood high and brown and overgrown with weeds. He climbed the steps from the street and jerked himself around the side yard to the rear, glancing back—apparently not used to entering the house by daylight—a furtive peer, then a scarecrow scramble through waist-high jungle to the back. The old rosebushes that had once belonged to his aunt were no longer in evidence, and—he noticed this as he made a horseshoe around the rear porch, trying to decide where he might have hidden a key—there is no key—

  The windows had been papered.

  The body remembered, so he went down on his knees—oh, how that made the snake twitch!—and pushed at a basement window, then skinnied himself through, stood on a box, and clambered to carpeted concrete floor—splish-splash, carpet soaked, the whole basement stinking of mold and mildew. The power was turned off. In the dark, he shambled up the basement steps, struck his shoulder against a first-floor wall, and fumbled his way by touch into the bathroom.

  He pushed down his pants and found the toilet. The pain made him scream. He almost passed out.

  Daniel slumped against the wall, his elbow cushioned by the toilet paper in its wooden holder.

  Half an hour later he leaned forward and his hand found a candle stub on the bathroom sink. A match, a matchbox. He struck the match and lit the candle, then stripped down and took a cold shower—letting the body do what it knew how to do.

  One foot out of the shower-tub, he fumbled for a filthy towel. Looked at himself in the medicine cabinet mirror. Eyes sunken and dull. Gaunt, straggling hair, skin sallow beneath a tangled, matted beard.

  Years of getting most of his calories from alcohol.

  He heard a new, rough voice come out of that ruin of a mouth, between those rotten teeth—

  “Oh—my…God.”

  This was not Daniel Patrick Iremonk—not any sort of Daniel. This time, he had shoved himself into a body not even remotely his own. He had jaunted into an entirely new game—revealing a new and staggering aspect of his peculiar talent.

  He was in another man, living another man’s life.

  FOURTEEN ZEROS

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  The Kalpa

  Seventy-five years had passed since Ghentun had met the angelin in the Broken Tower—less than a blink for a great Eidolon, but a lengthy span for a mere Mender.

  The Keeper walked unseen over the bridges connecting the three isles, the foundation plateaus that rose above the flood channels and supported the stacked Tiers; up the lifts and stair cores of the fifty-floor blocs of niches, as he did almost every wake, studying his charges, the ancient breeds, as they worked, moved about, talked, worried—escorted their wide-eyed children, fresh from the crèche—prepared foods purchased in busy markets, harvested from meadows and fields beyond the two broad flood channels, known as Tartaros and Tenebros.

  In all the Kalpa, only the Tiers still had seasons worth observing—births and deaths, children delivered from the crèches on high, aging breeds relieved of their burdens by the Bleak Warden, their primordial mass recycled into new children, and a few—wanderers all, instinctively tuned—selected by the Keeper to be trained, equipped, and sent out into the Chaos to become marchers. A rhythm of interest now only to him, it seemed—but also, he hoped, to the Librarian who had planned it all ages before. Great Eidolons could so easily forget…

  The chronological weather had calmed of late, and time was ticking along with such cheer—allowing actual days of sequence, when memory functioned almost as designed—that some in the Kalpa felt the old ways and rules might be returning. That was unlikely. The great reality generators were faltering, usually by tiny increments, but sometimes by leaps and bounds. Terrifying intrusions—streaks and smears of the Typhon’s nightmare void, breaking through to the Kalpa—were more frequent. Dozens of Ghentun’s breeds—most vulnerable, living as they did at the city’s foundation levels—had been destroyed or gone missing.

  Something in the Chaos seemed to be hunting.

  In the dark before wakelight, within a loud shout of the Tenebros bridge, teams of referees were sleepily clearing and roping off a fallow meadow, preparing for the games the breeds called little wars. Invisible—though not without some effect on the breeds around him—Ghentun made his way through the gathering crowds. He found a good vantage on a hillock, drew up his legs, and sat. Soon enough he would be on the move again.

  Another game was in play—grander and much more dangerous, not just to the breeds, but to Ghentun himself—but at the end, they might find the key to defeating the Typhon. In the meantime, the citizens of the Tiers did their best to live as they always had—bravely, foolishly, wisely. They were hardy folk. Whatever the circumstance, they found their amusements.

  The skirmish on the meadow was going splendidly, most agreed. The traditional engagement had begun while mist still draped the mounds and grasses. Five hundred breeds—divided equally into four tribes—began their contest at the sound of the judges’ horns, great jagged blats that echoed from the high, bright ceil.

  Jebrassy—strong and dashing in armor he had made from purple keel-husks—sallied out with eight pickets in like garb to assess the chances of breaking through on their opponents’ left flank, and there was a lovely, knock-all fray in dense fog as they met other pickets.

  All along, as he fought—giving many more blows than he received—Jebrassy had the uncomfortable sensation he was being watched. From the corner of his eye, wisps, puffs, interruptions in the fog that hollowed and twisted and vanished—distracted him. He did not fight as well as he wished, and perhaps that was fortunate, considering the damage he was already doing.

  Jebrassy and his fellows—Khren and the others—took to their combat with spirit, swinging their stravies with such conviction that few challenged them, and many lodged protests with the judges who glumly wandered in to intercede.

  The older warriors squatted with narrow, discouraged eyes. The good days were gone, they said, shaking their heads. Some felt the contests were not violent enough—others, that mercy and honor had been forgotten. They seld
om agreed about much.

  Through morning and into evening, the war resumed, mounted with shouting and cursing and singing of martial airs, bluster, batting, torn hair, and flying spittle, until the ceil dimmed to brown and welcome tweenlight fell over the breathless, bruised combatants.

  The seniors loved to watch fights, as long as not too many were hurt—and Jebrassy’s crew was pushing that tolerance to the edge. Many groaned and limped away—and many more grumbled on the field and off.

  Jebrassy, by his own estimation, retired from the din in full glory, head bandaged, arm wrenched. In camp, he was dosed by a stolid medical warden, a drum-shaped machine with stubby lift-wings, now folded. Though almost faceless—just three off-center glowing blue eyes in an oval head—the wardens always seemed saddened by such goings-on, but performed their duties without chide or complaint.

  Sometimes, it was said, in the broad dark ports high in the walls or in the ceil, overlooking the meadows and fields, the Tall Ones, masters of the Tiers—in the naive conception of the breeds—watched these lovely little engagements and made judgments that would be taken into account when the Bleak Warden came to snip your final hours and fly you to the crèche. Some even claimed—though Jebrassy highly doubted it—that the Tall Ones walked among their favorite fighters, and if they were not doing well, clouded them in mist and flew them away…

  But he had fought to his satisfaction, thumping and being thumped, and so be it; he was willing to be profane and think in other directions. That somehow made things better. As the warden finished its patient ministrations, Jebrassy looked up past the gleaming, off-center eyes, squinted at the mellow browns and greenish-golds of the tweenlight ceil, and wondered what the Tall Ones really thought of such idiocy. He had never known anything but the Tiers, of course, and that irritated him. His spirit felt crushed beneath that vast, rounded roof. He was an adventurous fellow, filled with ambition to exceed the sight lines shared by those around him—short, flat lines, mostly, though long enough in the fields to suggest the mysterious Wide Places some whispered about, where one could see forever.

  Standing beside a makeshift stand displaying sweet chafe and tork—intoxicating juice fermented in heavy jugs—an elderly male breed waited while the warden applied a last twist of bandage. Jebrassy stiffened. The warden apologized in flat, sympathetic tones, but the ointments and glues were not what caused him pain.

  A time of parting had arrived. The elderly male, Chaeto, was his second per—his male sponsor. A stocky fellow with the full spiky beard of a breed soon to make the acquaintance of the Bleak Warden, Chaeto and his partner Neb had taken Jebrassy in after his first sponsors vanished. They treated him well, yet Jebrassy had brought them little but grief.

  Chaeto approached and stood by him, eyes gray with inner turmoil. They acknowledged each other with finger-taps to their necks, Jebrassy first, as required. Jebrassy then stroked the old male’s extended palm.

  The gesture brought little solace.

  “You did well out there,” Chaeto said. “As always. You’re a fighter, that’s sure.” He cleared his throat, then looked aside. “Not many more seasons we’ll have to raise young breeds. Mer and I think you’ll benefit no more from our instructions. Already you pay no heed to our pleas.”

  Jebrassy stroked his per’s palm again, apologetic supplication. They had affection, but neither could sidestep what the old breed was about to say. “You’re determined to stick with your toughs, aren’t you?”

  “My friends,” Jebrassy murmured.

  “You still talk of wandering off to die away from the Tiers, without benefit of the Bleak Warden?”

  “No change, Per.”

  Chaeto looked up at the last glimmer on the ceil. “We’re taking in a new one. Can’t have you spread…your plans…to a fresh umber-born. Can’t have that in your mer’s niche. We’ve done our best. It’s the winding road you’ve chosen. You’ll go on now without us.” Chaeto withdrew his palm, leaving Jebrassy’s finger suspended. “I moved out your stuff. Mer’s broken up, but new young will mend her.”

  The elder touched Jebrassy’s neck one last time, then turned and walked off with the limp he had acquired over the last few years. The wardens, having paused as if to listen, went about their repairs to the rest of the injured. The other breeds turned away—little or no sympathy for Jebrassy’s plight. He had delivered too many thumps and jabs.

  Chaeto had likely told the high toller of their home level. The high toller would ban him from the neighborhood—even though there were vacant niches.

  He was on his own. He would never see either of his sponsors again, except by accident—perhaps in a market—and even then, they wouldn’t acknowledge him. He was what he thought he had always aspired to be—a free breed. And it hurt far worse than any of his slight wounds.

  Jebrassy got to his feet and looked around for someone, anyone, with a generous jug.

  After the field had been cleared—seven injured, none seriously, a disappointment for the more bruise-happy breeds—the walls of the nauvarchia grew high in the Tenebros, between the inner meadows and the first isle, and water gushed into the sinuous shallows. Brightly decorated boats were hoisted and rowed out, and a different set of breeds fought a rough-foot, sink-all sea battle. Those who had fought earlier—and could still walk—gathered along the wall and ate, drank, cheered, and complained, until hardly any had the strength to move. The wakelight dimmed to gray dark. The walls fell and the waters drained. The battered boats were lifted and rolled away, and the spectators who had drunk too deep and could not move were tented by their friends. The rest limped and strolled back over the meadows and fields—waved off by crop-tenders if the fields contained produce. A robust few danced and sang with their last energy across the bridges to their blocs on the three isles, happily convinced that the little wars were fine things, perfect for keeping the ancient breed amused and healthy.

  Jebrassy pushed himself from the littered wall, winced at the tug of his bandages, steadied himself—he had consumed a fair volume of tork—and realized only then that he was being watched—and by someone he could actually see.

  He turned with what he hoped was dignified grace to meet the sharp, half-critical gaze of a glow—a pretty young female. She wore an open vest and flowing pants whose colors revealed that she resided in the middle bloc of the second isle—as had Jebrassy, until now.

  The glow approached. Her hair was short and lustrous in the fading light, her eyes fixed and penetrating, so full of intent that he wondered if her mer and per would emerge from the milling crowds and retrieve her, or request an immediate testimonial from the sponsors he no longer had.

  That would be awkward.

  Jebrassy met her gaze with puzzled dignity until she came within a few inches, sniffed him, and smiled. “You’re Jebrassy…aren’t you?”

  “We haven’t met,” he said, mustering all the wit he had left.

  “They say you like to fight. Fighting is a waste of time.”

  He half stumbled over an empty jug. “Is there anything else worth doing?” he asked, steadying himself.

  “We have three things in common. The first is, when we dream, we stray.”

  She could not have shocked him more—or come closer to wounding him. Jebrassy had told only Khren, his closest friend, about the straying. His frown turned to dismay, then genuine distress and embarrassment, and he looked over his shoulder, blinking at the crowds as they walked in chattering clusters up the ramps and off the field.

  “I’m drunk,” he muttered. “We shouldn’t even be talking.” He started to walk off, but she looped her arm under his and tugged him to a stop.

  “You didn’t let me finish. I want to leave the Kalpa. So do you.”

  He regarded her with inebriated wonder. “Who told you all this?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He smiled. He practically leered. This might turn out to be a mischief after all—two reckless youths, left to their own devices. The glow’s expression di
d not change, except for a disgusted flip of her lashes.

  Taken aback, he asked, “What’s the third thing?”

  “If you want to know,” she answered, eyes glinting in the last of the tweenlight, “meet me by the Diurns just before next sleep. My name is Tiadba.”

  Then she turned and ran toward the ramps and the bridge—faster than he could follow, drunk as he was.

  CHAPTER 7

  * * *

  As light ebbed and shadows gloamed, Ghentun arranged his notes—he kept them in a pouch beside a small green book—and strolled through the lower floors of the first isle bloc.

  Moving still unseen from niche to niche, he wrote in Puretext with a flower finger he willed to be tipped in soft silver, feeling affection and sadness as he monitored the most recent generation of ancient breeds to be delivered.

  Ghentun’s mind wandered. Before becoming a keeper, he had been a student of city history—and like all historians in the Kalpa, that meant he knew very little about a great deal. What he knew—but had never seen—began with a blanket of smooth utter blackness, sprayed with trillions of stars: the Brightness. Something less than a memory now, and little more than a dream.

  Across its first hundred billion years, the cosmos expanded until its fabric stretched thin, opening voids wherein dimension had new or no meaning. Galaxies became distorted, burned out, wrinkled away.

  Space itself was aging, decaying—some thought dying.

  For longer by far than the Diaspora that had flung humans to the fringes of the universe, they survived in the last tight islands of artificial suns, surrounded by a great and growing emptiness. This became the status quo. The early universe was seen as feverish and squalid, abnormal.