The One That Comes Before

by Livia Llewellyn

  “Alex, what happened, where have you been all this time?”

  “I—I’m not sure what happened, exactly,” Alex begins, tears starting to slide down her cheeks. She takes a step forward, letting the pencil drop to her feet. It clatters and rolls away under Bartram’s desk. “I woke up in that little office, it was just maybe half an hour ago. I was so drunk, I must have just passed right out. I woke up, and I heard someone in the hallway, I thought maybe it was you, but it was some stranger, some man in a suit, I don’t know, and then—” she stops to swallow a sob, “—he saw me and started chanting in some language I’ve never heard, and he had this piece of metal in his hand, I didn’t know what to do. He lunged at me, he tried to hit me with it, and I just—just started grabbing whatever I could off the shelves and throwing it at him. Books, weights, I hit him with glass jars, I cut him, he was bleeding all over. But he wouldn’t stop, and then, I’m so stupid, I remembered my knife—” she raises her skirt slightly, revealing the leather straps “—and I started stabbing and stabbing until he stopped moving—” her voice drops to a whisper. Felix rushes up to her, grabbing her upper arms.

  “I killed him.” Shivering, Alex lets go of her skirt: one hand slides up under her blouse as she squeezes Felix’s shoulder for support.

  “Is he dead? Are you absolutely certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain. His eyes were open, but he wasn’t moving. He looked shocked. Like this.” She slides the letter opener up and thrusts it into his chest. “Yes, that’s exactly what the man looked like. Like he had no idea how much he underestimated me.”

  Felix slides silently to his knees, then topples over. Alex pushes him onto his back, and pulls the opener out, then raises it. “Do not move.”

  In the bathroom doorway, Vecula freezes like a baby guanaco before a jaguar, her slender pale limbs trembling as she presses herself up against the frame.

  “Did you do all of this?” she asks.

  “No. Just Felix. In exchange for my life. Well, he doesn’t know that part of the exchange yet.” Alex steps forward, wiping the blade of the letter opener against her arm as she slowly makes her way toward the girl.

  Vecula darts a glance at the door, but Alex can tell she knows it’s too far.

  “And what would I need to give you in exchange for my life?”

  “That’s a good question. Except, you’re not going to like the answer. I already know that some massive creature is under Becher, and it’s going to be born and destroy the entire district. I also know that that man waiting out in the hallway is just like you and Felix, and he knows you’re in here, just like you probably know he’s out there, right? You can sense each other, some magic crap like that, right?” Vecula only stares down at her bare feet, spattered with droplets of blood like rubies across the webbing and pale pink polish. “He’s waiting for me to kill you so he can use your body. For what, I have no idea.”

  “I know.”

  Alex stops in her tracks.

  “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

  “You can’t get off the floor.”

  “There’s a terrace on the thirty-fifth floor—there’s a terrace every five floors down. Each one circles the entire building. Say I jumped out the window before you could catch me.”

  “That’s insane. You’ll die.”

  “You have no idea what I can do.” A small tone of haughtiness creeps into her voice. “You all think I’m so stupid, and maybe I am, maybe I don’t know anything about stupid books, but I know things. I know magic, and it’s not crap. I also know that by the end of this evening, this entire building is going to be turned into a pillar of thaumaturgical fire, and all of the spurs are going to rise up straight into the air and those beams are going to point right down all across Becher and completely pulverize every inch of rock beneath it, and then this entire district is going to drop over ten kilometers down into the earth and attach itself to the top of whatever’s down there, and then those spurs and all that machinery in Becher are going to drag Becher and that thing back up the walls to the surface. Becher isn’t going to be destroyed because it’s not a district. It’s a gigantic round forceps.”

  Alex lowers her arm. “What. The. FUCK.”

  Vecula smiled. “I know, right? My dad told me. Half of the equipment in the spurs was made by his company. He tells me all kinds of shit he’s not supposed to, because he thinks living above the surface has made me so stupid that I can’t understand anything he says anymore. He calls me his little oxygen retard, right to my face. Can I go now?”

  She’s going to escape, the little princess, she’s going to sail off into the night and across the river, and leave us all here for her beautiful, magic-filled life. She’ll spend the rest of her days talking about her ugly, slow coworkers—especially the monstrously tall, scarred receptionist she duped into letting her escape. Or maybe the story will be a terrible fight, with bolts of magic crackling in the air, the vanquished and broken woman collapsing in a heavy heap at the lithe enchantress’s perfect feet. Or bowing and genuflecting, licking her oceanic mistress like a whipped dog. Vecula won’t say anything with malice, she is genuinely too stupid for such an emotion. But she’ll rewrite the tale, and she’ll believe it, and so will everyone who hears it. Unless.

  “Yes, you can leave,” Alex says. She walks over to the nearest window and unlocks the heavy brass latches. Warm, wet air flows in as she pulls the heavy glass pane into the room. Vecula still stands near the doorway.

  “Come on, quick, while there’s still time.” Alex holds her hand out, and Vecula darts across the room, embracing her in a hard hug. “Thank you so much, I promise I’ll pay you back someday!”

  “You’re going to pay me back right now.” Alex whips the girl around and presses her against the wall, pinning her slender frame with her entire body. Vecula writhes underneath her, but it seems almost half-hearted.

  “I knew you’d want more,” Vecula says, sounding almost coquettish. “Everyone above the surface always wants more. No one’s happy with what they were born with. It’s going to get all of you in so much trouble someday. You’re going to find the god you’re all looking for, and you’ll wake him up, and you’ll never be able to put him back to sleep.”

  “You weren’t happy with what you were born with, either.” Alex runs the tip of the letter opener along the rows of sharp diamonds at Vecula’s throat. Tiny clicks fill the hot air. “Do these come from the depths of the Southern Ocean, too?”

  “They came from another world.” Vecula begins to weep.

  “Well, then. Maybe it’s time you learned your own lesson.”

  Vecula’s high-pitched screams don’t stop her, or move her. What has moved her in her miserable life? Sitting in the light of the setting sun, watching the single cube of ice melt in the amber liquid she holds in her long crooked fingers? A towel, folded into the shape of Lady Slipper’s flower, resting at the foot of her black iron oven? Standing at her window, watching the glittering witches of the underworld float to and fro across the wet cobblestone alleys? These things make her calm, give her a semblance of normality and balance, but they don’t move her. Alex suspects what moves her lies perhaps in another universe, in the cosmic depths she can never quite reach in her kills.

  After she finishes skinning Vecula’s neck, Alex gently lifts her unconscious body up and slides her over the sill, then closes the window. What she would give to know the story the girl will tell now, she wonders as she coils the wet strands of diamond-studded flesh around her fingers, then slips them off and shoves them into her bra. As she leaves Bartram’s office, Alex places the letter opener back into Felix’s chest, and gives it an extra shove. She never wanted to look at his heart. She always knew exactly what was inside.

  5:46 pm

  “I still can’t believe you let her go,” Diogenes says as they quickly wheel Felix down the hallway. His stiffening body is draped over one of the plastic carts the press uses—used to use—to transport the larger manuscripts and
supplies from one office to another. It was Alex’s suggestion, after Diogenes declared he was too wiped out to haul one more pound of flesh through what seemed like miles of corridor.

  “I can’t believe you trusted me.”

  “I can’t believe that myself, to be honest. But I figured I’d get at least one body out of it.”

  “Mine, right?”

  “That was a possibility. But, no. Hate always wins out over love. And your hate for them was greater than theirs for you.”

  “Do you really believe that? That hate wins?”

  “Yes. But, I believe that kind of hate is almost a kind of love. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I mean, tired. A bit shell-shocked. But, I’m fine. Why?”

  “Reception is just up ahead, right?”

  “Yes, right down there, at the end of the hall. If it hasn’t moved, again.”

  “Nothing in this building will ever move again. All of the configurations are now locked and in perfect alignment.”

  “Because of the beam of fire, right?”

  Diogenes looks surprised.

  “Vecula knew. Her father owns some, or all, of the factories that made the machines that are going to start the spurs. He told her everything. She told me everything. It’s some kind of traction beam, right? A suspension system for lowering and raising Becher.”

  “Interesting. Well, I guess it’s good that you let her go. I can’t imagine what her father would do if she’d died. No doubt his power is vast and otherworldly.”

  Alex bites her lower lip.

  “Anyway. This is what’s going to happen. I’m going to wheel him into reception, while right now, you’re going to take this—” Diogenes stops the cart, reaches into his pocket, and takes out a small plastic building security badge “—and you’re going back to the elevator in the Ministry office and riding it up to the roof. That’s where I put your knife. Just press the barcoded side of the badge against the right side of the gate, and you’ll see your floor options displayed. No magic required, it’s all high tech.”

  “You said the elevator could only—yeah. Of course. Well played.”

  He smiles.

  “And that’s it? I can just leave? Where are you going to be?”

  “I need to put this body into the anchor room—which is no longer just your elevator bank. It’s a single column extending from the machine room below the sub-basements all the way up to the roof, and it runs, in part, on biological materials. Every body in the building is necessary. Including mine. What happens to you won’t be of any concern to me.”

  “That doesn’t bother you, that you’ll die? Why don’t you just walk away, or run?”

  “It’s not in my nature to run—and it is in my job description to finish my assignment.”

  “Which job?”

  Diogenes raises an eyebrow. “Actually, both. But I’m not going to die. This is simply another transformation. Who knows what’s on the other side? Maybe it’s Obsidia again, or a different version of Obsidia, or something else. I’m sure the Ministry knows, but they wouldn’t give us the particulars. I’m very much looking forward to finding out.” Diogenes grabs the cart handle and starts pushing. “Go on, you don’t have much time, unless you plan on sticking around, or getting back to the first floor like Vecula did.” He gives her a little shove. “Go on, fly away. I have faith in you.”

  Alex turns and runs back down the hallway, praying she’ll find the office quickly. So many fucking manuscripts, papers sliding all over the floors, spilled ink and viscous fluids—did he have to destroy the entire office in order to kill nine employees? “He really wasn’t an assassin,” she mutters, kicking aside a copper funerary jar. A soft plume of grey ash explodes as it bounces off a bookcase, coating her ankles with human dust as she passes through it. The door, there it is, just down the hallway to her right. Alex doesn’t even know what part of the floor she’s on, whether it’s south or west or north. But a scattering of lights appears at the horizon through the windows, orienting her. She’s facing north now, away from the district and out over Obsidia. Picking her way across the now thoroughly congealed mass of flesh her beloved blade left behind, Alex grabs the closet door handle and slams it shut behind her as she steps into the elevator. Instantly, she’s plunged into pure black.

  “Card, card.” Alex slams it against the right side of the gate. Nothing. “Other side, other side.” She flips it and tries again. Nothing. God-shitting lying son of a bitch. Her hand reaches blindly out and smashes into the gate. The gate! She slams it closed, then hits the wall with the card again. Lights flood the elevator, and the gate automatically locks. A series of numbers appear within the wall, glowing bright red. She presses her fingertip hard against R, and the elevator lurches up. Alex keeps the badge against the wall as she studies the rest of the display. L for lobby, B for basement. SB must be sub-basement. The floors listed below, though: SB1, SB2, SB3, SB4—all the way to SB14. And then: RB. Alex shivers. River Bottom. If only she had had more time…

  The door pings, and the gate slides open, revealing a standard metal door, vibrating along with the building. Slipping the badge into her skirt pocket, Alex pushes the door. It swings out to a vast, flat rooftop. In the center, a massive column of cool green fire is streaming out and into the sky, a reverse waterfall of pure magic. She looks up. She sees no end, there is no sign of the column bending or arcing, falling back under its own weight onto itself or across Becher. It simply goes on forever. Alex turns around in a slow circle. From here the entire district spreads out, a dead zone, black as oil, its edges discernable only by the faint sickly glow of the river; and the three other spurs. Each one is lit up like a candle, the single highest building at each apex shooting the same pale-green column of fire into the black sky. The black sky over Becher, that is: far across the river, miles away, Obsidia still glimmers under the late afternoon sun. Alex stares again into the dark sky. Is it the sky? Is it their sky, or are those obsidian clouds from someplace else?

  She rubs her eyes, and starts loping alongside the railing. No time to think about any of this, she has to find her knife. Alex runs her hands along the metal rails, praying for a bit of the blade. Even in the glow of the fire, it’s almost impossible to see each individual bit of steel. But where else would he have put it? She reaches the southeast edge and heads north, working her hand over every bit of metal as if she were making love to it. It’s only when she’s halfway up the eastern side that she sees it—a small platform perched in the middle of the northern edge of the railing. Alex runs, her bare feet slapping against the pebbly surface. Yes, she sees it now, her knife standing at attention in the middle of the platform’s flat, wooden surface, its point embedded dead center. She reaches out and grabs the handle. Instantly its gentle thrum radiates through her bones like a song. But it won’t come out. Alex tugs again, harder. It doesn’t budge. She places both hands on the grip, crouches down slightly for better traction, and—

  6:00 pm

  —the column explodes into a solid mass of roiling thaumaturgical matter. The explosion is so loud her eardrums burst. Alex screams, but she can’t hear herself; but it doesn’t matter, because now the suction from the force of the fire is lifting her off her feet, sucking her toward the deep green river. She grips the knife handle as tight as she’s ever held anything in her entire life. Somewhere, at the other end of her body, her shoes are gone, her skirt is shredding away, her flesh is starting to crackle and blister with fire. And now: the entire railing lurches forward. It’s starting. Beyond the massive roar of the fire, an even greater, deeper thunderstorm of machines, as they spring to life. The spurs are lifting. Alex feels her bowels and bladder evacuating, but it’s all so far away, her body is nothing, there is no flesh, there is no Alex, there is only the handle, the handle of her beloved that she wills into her flesh, wills into her bones, nailing her to that slender platform that defies the entire maelstrom around it, and the building is lurching upward, and out, out, out, out, and above her t
he naked half of the spur reaches high toward the baleful skies, and the building is pointing inward, out across the entire district toward the other three, and she can feel her hair burning as the beams smash into each other, the shockwave visible like an airborne tsunami, and now the columns are abhorrent emerald, liquid and alive, they are death and flesh and the river, redirected and scouring the earth beneath Becher away as it begins its unstoppable descent; and she should be dead, she should be ashes but she burns, she burns and hardens like a diamond, like a hideous newly forged blade. And the platform gives way. She flies out and up; and then directly down into the great mother river of birth and destruction, black night giving way into green, into white—

  into—

  to—

  —

  After

  There is a blackness so tight and complete that all thoughts bleed away into it, all breath, all sound.

  And then:

  Soft grey veins of cloudy light begin to cut through like lightning, followed by ripplings of dark purples and blues, little flashes of orange and white, like when she used to rub her eyes as a child and her lids and pupils would press together to create phantom kaleidoscopic landscapes that only she could see. After a while, she realizes she is realizing things, that she is a she, that her eyes are not closed, that she is seeing some terrifying and new place, traveling through it like an infinitesimal mote of dust.

  Awareness is followed, slowly, gradually, by sounds. Her breath, moving in and out of her slightly open mouth (she has a mouth! she has a body!), the faint whoosh and thump of blood surging through her heart, the wail of air rushing in and out of her lungs. But the wailing sound gradually shifts, evolves, and with it so does her understanding: it’s coming from outside of her, not within. A low colossal moaning that widens into a deep and endless chorus of heart-rending sobs. All around, the landscape brightens, as if some dying sun is rising a universe away. She has hands, and she holds them up in the dim air. Now she has her bearings, her full awareness of self. She is floating, hemmed in on all sides by malformed beings positioned exactly like she is—upright, with feet pointed down toward a distant land that looks like scorched, burned flesh oozing with blisters and open sores.