City at the End of Time

by Greg Bear

  When she looked up at me, lips rouged in blood, and while my tissues swiftly regrew, she declared we had a perfect balance—that she would always consume, and I would always provide, and survive to collect my paltry fee.

  I think she meant this in jest. However, I soon found it wearisome.

  Tiadba underlined the last few words with her finger, unsure what any of it meant. She felt an angry unease at things she could not understand. “Did she actually eat him?” she whispered, aghast. She wasn’t sure she wanted Jebrassy to read these parts, and thought about tearing out the page—even gave it a tug, but it was too tough.

  Still, something in her stirred. The measured layout of unfamiliar words sank deep, brought up memories she didn’t think she had personally lived to acquire.

  Half asleep, before turning another page, she glanced at Jebrassy—so peaceful, lying beside her—and thought of partners, pairs, lovers—across all the incomprehensible words of time.

  CHAPTER 41

  * * *

  The Astyanax met Ghentun standing before a transparent rack of glittering noötic instruments, which he was applying meticulously—without touch—to a simulacrum. The subject bore a faint resemblance to one of the ancient breeds, though larger, blockier, less graceful, and with less fur.

  All around them the chamber shifted at the whims of the Great Eidolon. Several times Ghentun had to move to avoid being burned, frozen, or simply crushed. Out of respect, he had set his cloak to minimum, but now he surreptitiously strengthened its protection.

  And this was the Astyanax trying to be polite.

  “I wonder,” he began, rotating the simulacrum. “Is this what our terrestrial ancestors once really looked like? Not as pretty as your ancient breeds, to be sure…but somehow, in its awkwardness, its crudity, more convincing.”

  “Quite convincing,” Ghentun said. “But we’ll never know. Those records are long since lost.”

  “Fun to speculate,” the Astyanax mused. “If you don’t mind a little competition.”

  The simulacrum blinked at them both with obvious astonishment.

  “Do you think if I confirmed its shape and set it loose in the Tiers, that it would dream, Keeper?” the Astyanax asked. “Would it behave as our ancestors once did, shedding their discarded world-lines, their untraveled fates, each time they sleep?”

  Eidolons rarely mentioned fates. Their makeup precluded variation along the fifth dimension—all fates were automatically optimized into a single path. That inflexibility made them peculiarly vulnerable to the Chaos.

  Ghentun walked around the simulacrum. “It’s a possibility,” he said.

  “If we could ever trace back along the combined chord of this creature and its gens,” the Astyanax continued, “linking up such a sensitive animal, made of primordial matter, with its closest ancestors, however far back…could it actually testify to those lost times? We would have to assume that its world-line would link and match with similar world-lines, retrocausally—like the mating of primitive genetic strands.”

  “The experiment has been tried. It’s always failed,” Ghentun said, unsure what the City Prince knew, what the Great Eidolons had told one another across half an eternity of subterfuge.

  “Yet that is precisely what you seek—confirmation of something in the remote past. The final destruction, am I right?”

  “You are never wrong,” Ghentun said.

  The Astyanax froze the simulacrum and then dissolved it. The primordial mass dropped into a glistening lump on the platform. “Idle play,” he said. “Have you spoken recently to the Librarian?”

  “I made a visit to the Broken Tower seventy-five years ago,” Ghentun said. “A meeting was scheduled to discuss the Tiers, but I have not yet been summoned.” He knew better than to try to hide obvious truths.

  “You reported a change in the Tiers to the angelins in the Broken Tower, Keeper. I assumed someone would let me know eventually. The Librarian and I, after all, have long co-ventured in this study.”

  “It is not my place to carry messages between Great Eidolons.” Ghentun knew he was being provoked. He expected little more from an Eidolon—compared to the City Prince, he was less than a pede crossing a dusty road.

  “I’ve heard the Librarian is still working on his radical solution to our difficulties,” the Astyanax said.

  “Many rumors descend from the Broken Tower,” Ghentun said. “I’m not informed enough to know what to believe.”

  The Astyanax surveyed him. Little could be hidden—a Great Eidolon could map a Mender in seconds. “Menders and Shapers have been engaged for half a million years at least with the current variety of ancient breeds.”

  “Nothing our Shaper does would surprise me. She so rarely does what I ask.”

  The Astyanax showed a glim of humor. The backscatter made Ghentun’s cloak fluoresce. “Sometimes I feel this city will never be controlled. I would almost welcome a chance to see how the Typhon could manage it.”

  Despite himself, Ghentun shivered.

  The Astyanax observed with approval. “You are obviously in no mood to betray the Kalpa, Keeper. Nor would you betray your Librarian. No secrets here, Mender—only your ignorance of the past, of what actually happened between the Librarian and the City Princes. Still, I would like a discreet and open copy of your report on the Tiers—the report you will deliver to the Librarian when he summons you.”

  “Of course,” Ghentun said.

  The Astyanax made no sign of dismissal. Something changed in the air of the chamber. The angelins shivered and blurred, on high alert—and with a jerk of surprise, Ghentun realized he was now facing the City Prince’s primary self, directly controlling this epitome—which looked as if it were barely up to the task. The glow stung Ghentun’s eyes. But the tone-color of the epitome’s words, directly from the core of the City Prince, became less provocative, almost casual.

  The angelins now gave Ghentun full focus, a kind of astonished warning that this intimacy was unprecedented. Theirs had become a meeting of presumed equals, and the angelins found this almost unbearable.

  “I remember him most vividly as the Deva, Polybiblios,” the City Prince said. “A tiny thing when he first came here, compared to what he is now. He has brought so much trouble, along with the grace of survival.

  “I’ve supported—tried to control—supported again, the Librarian, tried to understand his plans, the way he thinks—all of him. I’ve failed. There is inequality even among the Great Eidolons, and I have become the inferior—no doubt about that. But the Librarian would long ago have destroyed what we have left of time, if not for the efforts of the City Princes. The Kalpa has survived an extra few hundreds of millions of years—much of a sameness, to be sure, an elderly repose after reckless youth and endless maturity.”

  A simple visual appeared between them—three pieces of a twisted puzzle. They came together, making a deeply patterned ball smaller than Ghentun’s clenched hand.

  “I’m giving you a memory, Keeper. A message to convey, if you will. It will rise again when the time is right—when there is no time. Until then, it will sink deep, out of sight.”

  Ghentun felt his attention flick left, then right. The puzzle…swooping bands interlaced around a cross, the whole spinning and whirling at the center of…nothing…

  The nothing drew him, and for an indefinite moment fixed his thoughts. Ghentun listened to the Astyanax’s voice, rich and compelling. Even as the story was told, and slipped down and away from consciousness, Ghentun asked, trembling at his boldness, “Why did you send her away?”

  The answer remained in his immediate memory though all else faded:

  “I doubt you can understand the humility of an Eidolon, Mender. But in all my extensions I have tried to exercise humility. I saw a grave danger to the Kalpa. Had all the parts of the Babel been brought together, they would have triggered the end of the Kalpa—and everything else. Their completion and unity would have beguiled the last great forces of our cosmos into starti
ng over: Brahma, the moving stillness within, who will awaken; Mnemosyne, the reconciler, who walked among us for a time, but who must return to her true nature; and Shiva, who will dance in joyous destruction. Do you understand what a Babel is, Keeper?”

  The Astyanax touched his cloak, and Ghentun saw homunculi—servants of the Babel—climbing spiral staircases from balcony to balcony, arrayed along a wall that stretched up, down, to left and right—seemingly forever. The balconies provided access to bookshelves bearing prodigious numbers of ancient bound volumes. Farther along, other staircases rose to impossible heights and descended to limitless depths.

  One by one the homunculi pulled volumes from the shelves, examined them, frowned, and replaced them. And moved on, book after book, shelf after shelf, level after level.

  A reverse swing of his point of view revealed, across a narrow gulf, another unbounded wall supporting an equal number of books, on an equal number of shelves. The two apparently infinite walls of shelves seemed to meet and vanish in a vertical curve. Ghentun grudgingly admitted the curve was a nice touch, signifying a distortion of space—and an eternity of search.

  Strings of symbolic data beyond counting—certainly for a Mender. And probably even for the Librarian himself. Every history, every tale, every sequence, every theory right and wrong, lost in vast mazes of churning, indecipherable text…

  “Nothing will be beyond the scope of the Babel, combined and completed. All is there—all possibilities, all nonsense, all pride, all defeat. Truly it will be the greatest thing ever created. And the most dangerous.”

  A question seemed to flame into Ghentun’s mind, even though—perhaps because—it was unanswerable:

  And which would be more important to a universe—the random nonsense, or the things we think we can read and comprehend?

  “I know nothing of this,” he said, eyes lidded, yet he was terrified to his very center. The Babel would be so much larger than any universe…

  “No need. Recognize only that you haven’t finished your work,” the City Prince told him. “And finish it you will. Within a very few wakes, the Chaos will break through all our defenses. I acknowledge defeat. There is no choice, no reason to delay. I have transferred the city keys to the angelins in the Broken Tower, and my authority goes with them.

  “I am aware that you have long hoped to follow your ancient breeds outside the border of the real. Go now, Mender. There are no longer city rules to stop you. Do what you must to get your breeds to Nataraja—if it still exists. What matter of a few wakes and sleeps? The Librarian’s plans will proceed.

  “We will not meet again—in this creation.”

  The Astyanax turned gray as old stone and his presence passed to another location.

  The extraordinary meeting was over.

  An angelin escorted the silent Ghentun back to the platform and a waiting photon disc.

  He had been charting the intrusions long enough now to understand much of what the Astyanax had said or implied. The reality generators were weakening to such an extent that they could no longer protect any of the bions.

  Ghentun knew he had to act. He had to put a humane end to this experiment—make one last attempt to fulfill the task he had been given, ages before; whatever the Eidolons wished, and however they debated the nature of the end of time.

  The Keeper was only vaguely aware that he might be the last weapon in the City Prince’s arsenal.

  CHAPTER 42

  * * *

  The Tiers

  For the sake of Grayne, the Shaper joined Ghentun and did what she almost never did—she left the crèche.

  They came invisibly upon the old breed in her niche and stood over her while she slept. The Shaper was obviously pleased that Grayne was still capable of dreaming, despite all interference. These breeds were strong with dream. She knelt and applied broad, smooth fingers to Grayne’s forehead, then said, “Tell us who will be best for this last march, and who will be best for a journey to the Broken Tower.”

  Grayne did not need to speak to answer.

  The Shaper released her, and Ghentun stepped forward. “Her chosen pair seem smart. She’s always been a good judge.”

  “A breeding pair?”

  “They haven’t discovered that yet.”

  “Would it be wise to separate a breeding pair?” Ghentun asked rhetorically. The Shaper did not bother to acknowledge there was a question. It was not her place to render such opinions, and never would be, thank the city. She merely shaped—she did not ponder overmuch.

  “They’ve searched the deserted Tiers for their books, as always,” the Shaper said. “She steered them toward those shelves that tend to repeat the tales of Sangmer and Ishanaxade. Separated lovers…”

  “Can you tell what she’s dreaming?” Ghentun asked.

  “Oh, I’ve known that for an age,” the Shaper said. “All the trainers share the same dream, since the first batch. She’s dreaming she’s part of a group of ancient females—in the Brightness, apparently. Details obscure, of course, but they seem to seek out talented youngsters, just as she and her sisters have done.” The Shaper touched Grayne again and murmured, “Pity to lose her, after so many challenges. A favorite.”

  Grayne twitched. Her face betrayed a secret anxiety, not in the least connected with their presence.

  Ghentun closed his eyes. “Then I know her,” he said.

  The Shaper could not suppress all curiosity. He looked back at Ghentun. “How? Are you dreaming as well, Keeper?”

  “Retrieve the trainer’s books.”

  The Shaper paused, looking down on the old breed. Then she reached for the trunk, opened the finger-lock latch, and removed all the books—five of them. They stacked easily in the Shaper’s many arms. “Let’s not wake her,” the Shaper said. “Such a loss would be exquisitely painful to her. Not that I’m sentimental.”

  They backed out of the sama’s niche. A Bleak Warden entered, slow and silent. It settled to spread its folds over Grayne, and with a slight stir, before she could open her eyes, she was no more.

  A mercy, considering what was soon to come.

  “Bring me the male,” Ghentun said.

  “And the female?”

  “She will march. Pick others—friends, if they have any. Complete the sama’s travel group however you can, and speed their training.”

  CHAPTER 43

  * * *

  The sound began low and heavy—a bass hum that vibrated the walls of Tiadba’s niche. Jebrassy opened his eyes and twitched an arm, knocking one of the precious books off the sleeping pad. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Tiadba’s soft, steady breath—sweet and soothing. But the bed next to him was empty.

  He sat upright, listening, and thought that the thumping might come from Tiadba moving around.

  Where was she?

  But the sound was much too loud. It felt as if the Tiers themselves were shivering apart.

  He pulled on his curtus and stumbled over the scattered bedclothes to the door, which had opened halfway and seemed to have stuck. Somehow, that frightened him more than the sound, which grew even louder.

  The shaking made it difficult to stay on his feet.

  Over the deep rumble came another sound, no less frightening but higher-pitched—wailing and shrieking, like creatures in horrible pain.

  He squeezed through the opening and fell to his knees in the corridor. His hand nearly touched a deep, greasy blackness spreading along the floor of the hall like a hole cut into the substance of the Tiers—and growing. His eyes tried to focus on what had fallen into the hole—a fleeting impression of blurs that might have been two or more breeds, trying to swim against the blackness—and then something grabbed his shoulder and whirled him around.

  A huge warden nearly filled the hallway, its wings folded, strong, hard arms extended, one clutching Jebrassy, the other throwing a net, a thick cross-weave of glowing fibers that sucked itself in over the blackness and seemed, for the moment, to hold it back.
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  The warden pulled him away. “You are going,” it said, in a voice both passionless and irrefutable. Jebrassy was lifted from the floor and dangled like a doll. He swung his head just in time to see Tiadba squeeze past the warden’s gray carapace into the half-open door of the niche.

  The shriek and the roar grew, and to it Jebrassy now added his own shouts of pain—and a question: “Why?”

  Then Tiadba was back in the hall. She had retrieved a bag—their books. Turning her back to the warden, cringing, she allowed herself to be grasped and lifted. They both stared straight into the roiling dark that filled the opposite end of the corridor—

  The roar, the wailing—

  The net holding back the blackness had dissolved. The blackness advanced, offering at the crest of its dark wave three, four, five breeds—Jebrassy could not count them all—bobbing and twisting in ways nothing could twist, terrified, turning inside out and then skin side outward again, while still horribly alive, arms and legs moving with impossible speed—heads spinning like tops.

  The heads began to grow, the blurred eyes to expand, as if they would explode—

  Tiadba added her screams to theirs.

  And Jebrassy knew. He had seen this before, smaller, more concentrated. They were on the leading edge of an intrusion—like the one that had sucked away his mer and per.

  With a jerk, the warden retreated down the corridor, bumping and scraping the walls. Behind them the hallway squeezed itself into a wall and golden wardens gathered around the stair core to throw nets everywhere—

  Their own warden spun them, pulled them inboard to avoid banging them against whatever chamber or new branch of hall they had entered, smooth and silvery—a hall or pipe he had never seen before.

  A lift! Like the one in the Diurns.

  Jebrassy tried to reach for Tiadba but could not quite brush her with his fingers. She was alive, he could see that—she clutched the bag of books tightly to her chest—but she squeezed her eyes shut and bowed her head as if in submission.