by Greg Bear
They were being trained. The march was on…
Just when she thought she might be able to go on without Jebrassy, might be able to stop obsessing over the paths they would never follow together…she remembered the last sight of her young breed male, dangling from the grip of the brown warden, and grief flooded back.
There had been an awful noise, breath-snatching flight, painted swirls of darkness—a terrifying, inchoate presence. Tiadba had withstood all of that. The wardens had dropped nine breeds in the flood channel—so she assumed. She remembered nothing of those early moments. She did remember that they had crossed a wide plain under a darker portion of the ceil, featureless but for drifts of rock-dust. The short channel trees that clumped in the old mud had soon given way to an immense flatness, vanishing into shadow on each side. They were all close to panic, terror replacing bravado even as they neared the end of this first stage of their journey and saw the huge arches that marked the outer channel bounds.
Perhaps Jebrassy had been protected and survived as well; perhaps he was lost somewhere nearby and would wander into the camp at any moment. But she wondered how she could still believe. She doubted he was still in the Tiers. Either way, he was not with her and she longed for him.
The breeds rescued from the intrusion were not entirely the mix Grayne had been planning. Denbord, Macht, Perf, and Tiadba were the only members of Grayne’s group that had made it to the channel.
Nico, Shewel, and Khren had helped Tiadba and Jebrassy search for loose books in the upper Tiers—though they had found none of their own. Mash—the fourth searcher in the upper Tiers—was sucked up in the intrusion, so Pahtun said. Tiadba had liked Mash. Others in Grayne’s group also vanished, and so the substitutes had become necessary—willing or no.
The two other females—Herza and Frinna—were unknown to her, kept to themselves, and said little to anyone.
Khren, the strongest, had known Jebrassy most of his life. He had trained to be a pede-runner and repairer of meadow carts—when not fighting alongside Jebrassy in the little wars.
“I’d have never joined a march, and they’d have never picked me—so it’s even,” Khren said in camp. “Going out there might be better than kicking pedes and mounting wheels—or it might not. They just better not get too swift with me, that’s all I’m saying.”
“They” were the five Tall Ones who had guided them along the channel to this camp, and in particular the trainer, an experienced-looking Mender named Pahtun. They were all learning more about Tall Ones than they had ever imagined possible. Tall Ones were divided into two types, it seemed: Shapers and Menders. Shapers were rare and never seen. All the escorts were Menders.
Esolonico—Nico for short—and Shewel were shop-breeds, loaders and stackers learning to run market stalls; common types, though Nico fancied himself an expert on hidden wisdom. Tiadba doubted Grayne would have agreed.
Denbord had been senior to her in Grayne’s group, but seemed unsure about that now, since she carried the book bag, and Grayne had not sent him on his own search. He was a slender, thoughtful type, just the opposite of Jebrassy.
Their small camp had rudimentary facilities—six tents of translucent fabric open at both ends, and inside, flat sleeping pads. One remained empty—two males each filled three tents, and Tiadba had a tent to herself.
Frinna and Herza were pale, quiet types from the lower Tiers on the second isle—what Tiadba’s mer and per would have called cart-glows, or worse, dims. Tiadba herself felt no discomfort at their stolid quiet, yet she was certain—again—that Grayne would never have picked them.
None of them had dreams or visitors.
A few dozen yards beyond the tents stood a large round hut, silvery and hard, in which the trainers kept the tools and armor the marchers would use on their journey. Few provisions had been made for comfort or privacy, though fresh produce was delivered daily from the meadows.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Pahtun remarked. “Out there, no more eating or drinking. You certainly can’t live off the land. Your armor will nourish you.”
Twelve wakes and twelve sleeps passed mostly in vigorous exercise—for stamina and strength—and walking around the dust-drifted channel floor, barely better than sulking in their tents or fidgeting and scrapping.
Pahtun seemed older than the other four. Khren thought Tall Ones could look as old as they wished; didn’t they all live forever? Nico doubted that. Since none of the breeds felt brave enough to ask, Tiadba assumed that Pahtun was the oldest because he moved with deliberation, spoke clearly, and used breed terms all could understand, as if he had dealt with their kind many times before.
Despite the late and forcible recruiting, only three voiced any inclination to leave. One came from Grayne’s group: Perf, a gangling, clumsy breed in middle youth who was miserable away from his niche and let everyone know it.
During one sleep, Herza and Frinna tried to sneak off but were retrieved. They did not try again.
After that, Perf didn’t even try.
CHAPTER 58
* * *
The Broken Tower
A warm shadow drifted over Jebrassy as he lay in the small room, so very like his sponsors’ niche in the Tiers. He felt as if he were being weighed and measured—in ways he could not understand, but deep and fundamental.
The exam was painless but he did not like it. “What’s happening?” he asked.
No answer. Instead, the measurement seemed to change focus, moving up and out, and found him. His thinking self.
“What are you doing?”
The warm shadow expressed satisfaction. Then a voice sounded, so pleasant and familiar he was sure he’d heard it before—but couldn’t remember who it might be.
“Do you know what’s happened to you?”
“I’ve been brought to the Broken Tower.”
“Do you know why?”
“We’re too stupid and weak to be told such things.”
The voice became more immediate. “On the contrary, you’ve done well. You’re probably the strongest creatures in the Kalpa. Certainly the most important, now that my work is almost done.”
“You’re the Librarian?”
“Part of him—a part that has managed to keep some level of sanity over this half of eternity. Do you know about Eidolons?”
“No.”
“Well, no matter. The Librarian has become a Great Eidolon, which means he can no longer understand what it means to be small and insignificant. So he sets apart a few of his many selves, called ‘epitomes,’ and they fulfill that function. You’re talking to one now.”
“You’re not cold, like those blue things.”
“I am closer to the core of the Librarian. What you tell and show me, the Librarian knows immediately.”
“I’d like to see you.”
“Soon. But understand, anything you see will be an illusion, so even if you could see me, you wouldn’t strike out, despite your clenched fists. Like hitting a shadow, it would bring you no satisfaction.”
Jebrassy tried to relax his hands. “What’s going to happen?”
“In time, you will be set free to perform your duty. But for now we need to understand what you have become. You ring like a bell, young breed—a bell that no one in this time has tolled. Your vibrations are important. But for the moment, only half of you is in my presence in any way I can measure. The other half has to become manifest—events have to catch up. Until then, we will get acquainted, and I will teach you some useful things.”
“Where is Tiadba? Is she here, or somewhere else?”
“It interests me that you already know the answer to those questions. She is not here in the tower. She was not taken back to the Tiers. Where do you think she is?”
Jebrassy hated being played with, but he did know. “She’s in the flood channel, with the others. The marchers. I need to go to her.”
“You would do her little good. As I said, events have to catch up. You must reach your full potential, youn
g breed—and then you will be ready to join your friends.”
CHAPTER 59
* * *
The Flood Channel
Pahtun gathered the nine breeds on the channel floor, beneath the looming double arch, and stood before them, solemnly gazing at each in turn. The trainer was at least a third again as tall as Khren, their largest.
“You are chosen because your blood urges you outward,” he began, his voice deep and sad. “But whatever your enthusiasm, you will need help in your travels and a tempering to your urges. You are inexperienced, no doubt brave, but for now—foolish.”
Perf squirmed on the sand, as if afraid everyone would look at him.
“Out there, no warden will carry you gently home if you get hurt. Out there, more than pain—worse than death. That is what the Chaos promises. Beyond the border of the real lies the greatest challenge ever faced by human beings—and in that grouping, I include even the Great Eidolons on high, damn their arrogance.”
Pahtun looked around as if this might shock them, but these breeds knew nothing of Eidolons, great or small.
He waved his long-fingered hand, and Tiadba noticed that on the tip of his sixth finger—he had six fingers and an odd thumb, mounted in the center of his palm—there was a pink flower. Patient observation, as Pahtun spoke and waved this hand some more, rewarded her with the realization that this flower was in fact a cluster of six smaller fingers—perhaps used in delicate tasks. (Though Nico later suggested they helped the Tall Ones clean their ears.)
“No one can know what you will see and experience. While there are features that are relatively fixed and can be described, even partly explained, most of what is out there is great change with no reason or law. Accept it. The danger is constant. Your training will never suffice. But it will have to do, for between the will of those who will things,” he pointed over his head and back a bit, high above the three isles, “and your own blood instinct, planted in you and nurtured—bravery without sense,” he took a deep breath, “you are going. You are traveling. You will march. You have no choice. We have no choice.”
Tiadba spoke aloud an odd word: “Amen.” The others responded likewise, then looked at each other, dismayed.
“So, let me introduce you to the tools that might keep body and soul together out in the Chaos.” Pahtun sounded a humming, whistling note, and they stood.
The escorts guided the breeds into the silvery dome-shed.
Glistening and strange, suits hung from the walls of the shed like the casings of farm pedes, though more colorful. Of a size and shape to fit each marcher, they were shades of orange, red, blue, green, and yellow—which seemed strange if one wished to hide from things that hunted.
“These are the best that the Shapers of the Kalpa have ever been able to manufacture. Here, the generators of the city protect us—and in the Chaos, your armor will protect you, up to a point. Within these shells, the suits sustain the laws and principles that allow life, and they carry personalities as well—as one would expect from the Shapers who made them.”
“What are Shapers?” Nico asked.
“Like me,” Pahtun said, “only different. I’ve never seen one.” He did not elaborate.
The trainer introduced the breeds to their suits and suggested they try them on. Tiadba knew immediately which was hers. She stroked its outer shell—smooth, orange, and cool. The armor vibrated beneath her fingers and made a small, accepting noise.
Grayne had told them a little about such things, but she had not mentioned that the armor clambered over one’s limbs and trunk with a life of its own. The suits practically put themselves on as the breeds danced and squirmed. Herza and Frinna tried to pull free and failed. Those who finished first expressed nervous amusement at the expressions of their fellows.
The helmets fell limp over their shoulders like split hoods until, at Pahtun’s command, they rose up, stiffened, and sealed airtight. Yet from within, Tiadba felt no oppressive closeness. Her breath came easily and the air seemed fresh. She felt only a slight itching at the joints, which she soon learned to ignore.
“They become a second skin,” Pahtun said, “only more subtle and talented. Your armor protects you from endless misery; it is an ancient crafting still wonderful to my eyes—and yet, it has limits. It senses any slip or slide of the rules, such as they are out there. Your armor will transform or translate sensora in the Chaos, so that you may see light and shadow, color and shape. It helps you stay rooted to something like a surface, or travel over something like a landscape—reliably enough to make progress in your journey, presumably to a destination where the Chaos is held at bay.
“The Chaos is not entirely without form or character. There is a kind of weather—some places are more transformed than others, some almost untouched. While there may seem to be, for ages at a time, a thin coating of consistency in what we observe, in truth, the rules are ever-changing. Failure to learn and adapt quickly will have terrible consequences. And so, your armor will adapt and learn, and so will you.”
Two of the escorts carried out a flat egg mounted on a slim black tripod—a portable reality generator, able to place a suspension around their entire group for several wakes.
“Within the Kalpa, the semblance of ancient reality is maintained by our generators. If your armor should weaken or fail, these smaller units may protect you for a time.”
However, surrounded by such protection, they could not make progress toward their goal.
Next he introduced their weapons—never to be used recklessly or aggressively, which might attract unwanted attention. They consisted of curved, glowing blades called claves. The blades did not so much cut as accelerate change, Pahtun said. “Claves goad the Chaos—accelerate its own tendencies. The effects are unpredictable—what they strike may or may not disintegrate or cease to function.
“There are no other weapons—except your wits.”
Flight and hiding were always better choices. And so most of their training consisted of being taught how to be elusive—without any real clues, as yet, about what they would be eluding.
“Why do we not send you with vehicles—flying machines, spacecraft, transports through and over the ground?” Pahtun asked. “There’s a law of size applicable to our generators—a scaling law. To protect more than a small group of breeds, our generators must become unwieldy. And for any generator of reasonable size, an object in the Chaos may not move much faster than you can run—for that would exceed its ability to remap. As well, moving too quickly, in too great a force, attracts vortices of contradiction and failure that we call ‘twistfolds’ and ‘enigmachrons.’ These can be awful traps. They devour and incorporate whatever they capture, armored or not, bonding it with the Chaos. You will no doubt encounter victims of such—recent, and ancient. The victims of the Typhon fade slowly. Some of the monstrosities that once were human have been studied by angelins—Chaos watchers—in the Broken Tower since before I was made.
“And they’re still out there.
“Your armor is particularly vulnerable in the zone of lies, just within the border of the real. These are the middle lands, where the Defenders, the last rank of generators protecting the Kalpa, gradually ease their protection, and then give way to the Chaos. Crossing the middle lands must be done cautiously. Your armor must not become fully active—competing fields generate unpredictable results. I will accompany you into the zone to monitor your progress. I have not lost a marcher yet, not at that stage. But many other trainers have seen their marchers snatched prematurely, caught up in an intrusion or a twistfold.
“There are regions in the Chaos which seem to possess a constancy even across long ages. One of these is the Necropolis—the remains of the Kalpa’s nine lost bions. The Typhon has drawn up these ruins and combined them with the perverted remains of other cities. Here, the Typhon presents its warning of things to come—a cruel mockery of Earth’s greatest citadels, which once spanned the globe. Now, their remains, or their essences—their imagos—have
been gathered and rearranged within sight of the tower. Some of these ruins still seem inhabited—if that is the word—by hopeless phantoms. Those who once lived, do not, yet persist and act, and that which never lived takes on unexpected life.
“Let me now describe areas of great danger and opportunity. One is a kind of road or highway across the Chaos, known as a ‘trod.’ Trods appear and disappear, forming serpentine pathways or lanes through all regions.”
“What are they?” Tiadba asked.
“The trods serve as paths of conveyance. Even in the Chaos there are hierarchies of rule or misrule, power or weakness, grandeur or pity. The highest and most powerful figures or shapes—we dare not call them knowing or intelligent—use the trods to move about. Among them are the Silent Ones that have caused so much damage to our marchers, and which even in Sangmer’s day were active and powerful.”
“What do they look like?” Nico asked.
Pahtun shook his head. “Many shapes,” he said. “Some in the tower monitor their comings and goings. Unfortunately, they tell us little down here.”
The marchers stood beside the dome shed, grimacing and stretching and still getting used to their armor.
“The old matter that makes you and fills the bulk of the Earth was once sustained by the suspension that kept the Typhon at bay—but when that pulled tight around the Kalpa and the reality generators became necessary, we had to abandon everything outside. Primordial mass in the Chaos ages unpredictably, forming pockets of geological change and destruction, no longer limited by the simple rules of gravity, physics, nor even old space and time. The Typhon seems to relish that instability—whatever amuses the Typhon stirs the Chaos and torments old Earth.”