The Farthest City

by Daniel P Swenson

  Most audience members were engaged in spirited debate, spouting technical jargon and arguing abstractions Kellen couldn’t follow. Others in the audience remained quiet, like themselves, taking in the conversations raging about them. He saw more than a few sleeves and collars with the chine cult symbol, an embryo in a hexagon. He found something disturbing in their vociferous mannerisms. For them, this was not merely academic.

  The lecture began, and Kellen reluctantly dragged his attention to the front, where a man struggled to be seen above the podium, a head of tamped-down red hair and two feverish eyes just visible. Someone brought a stool, and the man’s pudgy face revealed itself. Radiating enthusiasm, he gripped the podium and cleared his throat with increasing amplitude until the crowd quieted.

  “Hello, everyone,” he said.

  A few hellos came back from the crowd.

  “For the newcomers to our lecture series, I’m Professor Hedlund, chief scientist of the Mechanistic Philosophical Institute. Tonight, Miss Eva Palmer will be presenting some interesting findings that lend support to the parental theory, the hypothesis chines indeed created humans and not the reverse, as the government would have you believe.”

  Hedlund sat in the front row, and a tall, spindly woman took the podium.

  “Thank you for attending tonight. Specifically, I’ll be presenting evidence of non-human-derived encryption in stream-encoded chine symbology.”

  The woman spoke on and on. Unable to follow the discussion, Kellen instead fell to daydreaming until Abby tapped his knee. The presentation had ended, and the audience members had begun to leave. Hedlund was speaking to Ms. Palmer. When she left, he began collecting some leaflets and other materials from a table, putting them into a briefcase.

  Kellen followed Abby over to the table.

  “Professor Hedlund?” she asked.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Abby. This is Kellen.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re looking for a friend,” Abby said. “His name is Izmit. Do you know him?”

  Hedlund’s eyes seemed to measure them, but he must not have liked what he saw. His mouth fell into a hard line and his eyes narrowed. His hands fussed with the presentation materials, and a few leaflets fell to the floor.

  “No, I don’t recall anyone by that name. Peculiar name. I’m sure I’d remember.”

  Abby looked at Kellen as if for help, but he shook his head. How much should we tell him? Memories of Grand-Mère flooded his mind. Nothing, he wanted to warn Abby. Don’t tell him anything.

  “He’s looking for a Singer,” Abby said.

  Hedlund’s face froze, then seemed to thaw. He looked them over with renewed interest, a smile blossoming on his face.

  “Your friend, black curly hair? Short, but strong?”

  Abby nodded.

  Kellen couldn’t decide if they’d made a grave mistake or not.

  “Yes, I recall him now. I sent him on to my colleague, Doctor Ekeroth.”

  Abby smiled. “Where would we find Doctor Ekeroth?”

  “Would you like her address?” He was already writing it down.

  He handed Abby a vid card. Kellen saw it was the same as the one they’d found in Izmit’s apartment.

  Hedlund swept the last of the materials into his briefcase. He ushered them to the exit. “If you could give Doctor Ekeroth my regards.”

  “Thanks, we will,” Abby said as she and Kellen stepped outside.

  “Goodbye.” Hedlund shut the doors from the inside.

  “Well, what do you make of him?” Kellen asked as they walked away.

  “Strange. But we’ve got what we came for.” She checked her comm. “We can take the train back to Coburn Station. It’s only a short walk from there.”

  #

  The building stood five stories tall, its outer windows dark. Kellen contemplated the forbidding place with its unknown and therefore frightening occupants. The sign in front identified it as a medical complex.

  They crept up to the entrance. Two men and a woman lounged on lobby furniture, feet propped up, watching a wall vid. The soft play of light on their faces made them seem normal until Kellen caught the glint of metal on one of the men’s collar.

  “They’re with a chine cult,” Kellen said. “We shouldn’t just walk in there. We don’t know who these people are.”

  “We’ve got to,” Abby said. “Izmit could be inside.”

  The blood pounded in his temples. His legs felt weak, and he had a sickening feeling in his stomach. Abby must have noticed his discomfiture.

  “I’ll sneak in the back,” she said. “There’s got to be another entrance. You wait for me here.”

  “You shouldn’t go by yourself.”

  Abby nodded and clasped his hand. Her hand trembled. She’s scared as well.

  They edged their way back along the building’s outer wall. Around the second corner, they found an unmarked door. Probably a service entrance or fire escape. He palmed it, but its lock didn’t respond.

  “Can you open it?” Kellen asked.

  Abby applied the same disc she’d used earlier. The lock made a soft complaining sound, but refused to yield.

  “The hard way, then,” she said, more to herself than to him.

  She placed the disc back in her belt and unfolded another tool, several segments that snapped in place. Without ceremony, she slipped the flat end of the tool into the gap between the door and its frame and leaned on it. Abby huffed and puffed for a minute, and then Kellen applied his weight, hoping the tool wouldn’t simply snap and send them stumbling.

  Something in the door crunched and gave way. A few more yanks wedged the door open enough for him to slide his fingers around the edge and break the lock completely. They slipped inside.

  A hallway led them past clinics dark and unoccupied, designated for various physicians. Bland paintings on the walls, potted plants in the corners. The hall lit up as they walked, until Kellen told the lights to stay off. They pushed forward, their eyes adjusting to the dark. Muffled voices came from somewhere, incoherent. Dim light shone from ahead.

  “This way.” Abby slipped through a door opening onto a staircase. The light came from the top of the stair.

  They climbed up one flight, then another. The voices now seemed almost level with them. Kellen lowered himself to the floor and crept up the final stairs until he could see into the space beyond. A brightly lit waiting area full of chairs with a reception counter along one wall. No one was in sight, but the voices continued.

  They entered the waiting room. The voices faded, grew louder, then faded again. Kellen’s pulse jumped. He’d always promised himself he would play it safe, and now look at him.

  A half-door let them past the counter and into a hallway with numbered rooms. Kellen opened one door, then another. All empty until Kellen opened the sixth door and stepped back. A bald man reclined inside, unconscious or asleep. He wore a surgical gown beneath immobilizing straps. A surgeon hung overhead, its razor implements folded about itself like a dormant spider. Tubes and wires ran from the man to instruments on wheeled stands at his bedside. The instruments beeped softly in the harsh light of the room.

  Despite the lack of a moustache and the naked scalp, even with the bushy eyebrows gone, it was Izmit.

  Abby squeezed through and unbuckled the straps. Kellen peeled off the wire leads where they’d been taped to Izmit’s chest and forehead.

  Izmit opened his eyes as they set him free. He placed a hand on Kellen’s arm, a glimmer of a smile. Even that slight effort seemed to cost him. His eyes closed.

  “We’ve got to get him out of here,” Abby said.

  Kellen heard the voices again somewhere outside. He searched the room for Izmit’s clothing, the battered boots, but found nothing. They’d have to take him out like this.

  “I’ll take one arm.” Kellen hoisted Izmit up from the bed.

  Abby positioned herself on the other side. They dragged him out of the surgeon’s reach and through t
he door. They half stumbled, half ran, carrying Izmit down the hall toward the waiting room.

  “Stop,” Izmit whispered.

  “Why?” Kellen asked. “We’re not alone. We need to leave.”

  “Number seven.” Izmit’s voice came out in a croak, his lips dry and cracked.

  Kellen looked at Abby. Her breaths came in little gasps. Her hands clutched Izmit’s arm like claws. He was just as afraid. His pulse raced, the urge to flee palpable. The voices. When had they gone silent? Were pursuers even now climbing the stairs?

  “Go back. Number seven.”

  “What is it?” Abby asked. “What’s in number seven?”

  Izmit mumbled something incoherent.

  Kellen wavered. Run, or go back? If we stay, we’ll be caught. But Izmit had come here for a reason.

  Kellen laid him down against a wall. “Stay with him. I’ll check number seven.”

  Abby nodded. He ran back, past the surgery, around a corner to room seven, and opened the door. What he saw set his stomach lurching and some extra reserve of horrified pity surging into his mind.

  Kellen tried to make sense of the woman. She wore a gown like Izmit’s. She reclined on the same type of hospital bed, a surgeon suspended above. But unlike Izmit, wires sprouted from her shaven skull, more than he could count, looping down to a machine against the wall, a bank of computer panels alive with tiny LEDs and screens displaying graphs and ticking numbers.

  And yet, tied to the machine, the woman sang. Notes woven into notes, harmony stretched into dissonance, then back, a confusing clash of beauty and horror. He wanted to pull her away from the surgeon, from those wires, but he dared not touch her. He might kill her. But Abby knew machines. He dragged his gaze from the woman and the machines and stepped back into the hall.

  The horror coiled inside Kellen’s mind as he ran back to the others.

  “Come with me,” he said to Abby.

  He picked up Izmit and hauled him back to room seven. The spliced woman still sang.

  Delusional, Kellen thought. How could she sing in such a circumstance?

  Abby’s eyes widened.

  “Get her out,” Izmit rasped.

  Kellen lowered him to the floor and moved to inspect the medical equipment. He had no clue how any of this worked. Abby pushed him aside, her fingers dancing over the displays, awakening menus and messages.

  Enter sequence, the machine said. Enter sequence.

  Abby’s face twisted into a grimace of intense thought as she plied the menus, choosing options.

  Sequence parameters invalid.

  Error reading instruction.

  Invalid command.

  Invalid command.

  Enter sequence.

  Warning. Initiating post-operative sequence. Proceed?

  Abby’s hand hovered over the panel.

  Voices. The voices he’d heard. So it hadn’t been the Singer, or maybe it had, but someone was coming.

  “Abby,” he said. “She could die. Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Abby whispered. She hit the command.

  The machine clicked and whirred. The woman’s bed began to recline, and bedside pumps whirred and bleeped, their numerical displays ticking up or down. With sickening slowness, the machine retracted blood-slicked wires from the woman’s head. A few ruby-red drops hit the floor in succession. Kellen thought he heard a soft, sucking sound as the wires pulled free, and he bent over, his stomach convulsed, and he expelled acid bile onto the floor.

  The surgeon’s arms danced around the woman’s head, stitching like mad, closing the wounds, even as blood had begun to seep out. Her voice remained steady until the last wire withdrew. She shuddered, her eyes slammed open, and then her head lolled to the side and her newfound consciousness faded.

  After they’d unstrapped her, Abby pulled her up and draped the woman’s arms over her shoulders. Kellen did the same with Izmit, and they rushed out through the waiting area, down the stairs, and into the hall.

  A wrecked old woman stood between them and the exit. Hunched over, eyes glaring from beneath bushy, grey brows. Wispy gray hair enshrouded a face speckled by age spots. She wore a white lab coat with the too-familiar symbols on the lapels.

  She raised her hand in greeting. “Hello.”

  The cultists they’d seen in the lobby came out of another door and arrayed themselves about the old woman.

  “I’m Doctor Ekeroth,” she said. “I run this clinic.” She sounded optimistic, as if there was a slight misunderstanding easily put right.

  Kellen, his shoulders beginning to ache, shifted Izmit’s weight.

  Abby backed up a step. “Kellen?” she said in a small voice.

  He glanced from her, to the doctor, to the three cultists. Their faces radiated an alarming expectance, like dogs waiting to be told to fetch. This is bad. Really bad. He couldn’t see a way out, and a queasiness started in the pit of his stomach. The exit at the end of the hall seemed impossibly far.

  “If you would be so kind as to allow my associates to resume care for our two patients, I would be grateful,” Ekeroth said. “Are you friends of Miss Tokuma?” She looked from Abby to Kellen. “Or of Mister Yilmaz?”

  Kellen blinked.

  “Ah, Mister Yilmaz then. Wonderful,” she said, as if enjoying this opportunity for some light conversation. “He’s not a talkative man. We don’t know much about him.”

  Kellen stared into those too-curious eyes, the surgeon’s glittering implements fresh in his mind. Every word out of Ekeroth’s mouth set his gut clenching a bit more. He tasted bile at the back of his throat.

  “We’d like to speak with you. I apologize for my intrusiveness, but are you perhaps of the Four? A Lighter? Or a Drawer?”

  Kellen glanced at Abby. She still held the woman over her shoulders, but her hands shook and her eyes were bright with the beginnings of tears.

  “You, miss, are you a Drawer?”

  Abby’s face remained impassive.

  “A Lighter, then?”

  Abby’s mouth twitched.

  “Ah, yes,” Ekeroth said. “I’d like to ask you some more questions, if you don’t mind. How do you know Mr. Yilmaz, for example? Perhaps we could talk, then my associates would escort you to the train station once we’re finished. You could be home in a few hours.”

  Was she telling the truth? Kellen tried to picture himself safe back in his apartment. He lowered Izmit to the floor and stood up. The three cultists looked at him. Despite his height, he wasn’t a fighter. He was thin as a rail. He’d never exercised a day in his life, aside from the nocturnal digging he’d done with Izmit. They would be more than a match for him, and they knew it.

  “We’re leaving now,” Kellen said, his voice quavering.

  His arms felt light, as if detached from their sockets. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to swing them even in his defense.

  Ekeroth looked disappointed. “Nicolas,” she said, “see if you three can convince them to stay.”

  One of the men stepped forward, the tallest of the three, but still shorter than Kellen. Nicolas possessed a grim athleticism. A predatory grin spread over his face. Teeth bared, his gaze swept over Kellen. “I’d be happy to, Doctor.”

  Time went sluggish. Kellen focused on Nicolas’ face. How had someone so young gotten involved with a chine cult, with people who put wires inside people’s heads? Perhaps he’d simply been enamored of all things chine, not so different from Kellen. Or he was an engineering or computer science student—an academic, but driven by belief.

  Nicolas was studying him as well, he thought, deciding how to grab him, tackle him, or whatever attack was forming behind those eyes.

  “Stay away from us,” Kellen said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Nicolas came even closer. “What did you say?”

  “Stay away from us.” Kellen backed up, but Nicolas came on.

  “Don’t worry, we won’t hurt you.” Nicolas drove his fist into Kellen’s belly.

  Lungs emptied,
Kellen struggled to breathe as his diaphragm throbbed with pain. Before he could recover, Nicolas was on him, arms locked about his neck, squeezing. Kellen’s legs buckled, and he went down on one knee. He could barely draw breath.

  “Kellen!” Abby struggled with the other two cultists.

  “Calm down,” Nicolas said. “We won’t hurt you as long as you do what you’re told, freak.”

  Kellen felt light-headed. The others had Abby on the floor, one kneeling on her back. Abby fumbled with her belt, then something tumbled from her grasp and clattered across the floor. It spun and came to rest next to Izmit’s head.

  “You know we want the same thing you want,” Ekeroth said. “We’re the same.”

  No, Kellen thought. He didn’t know what he wanted. Did he want the chines to return? He wasn’t sure, but he knew deep inside he was nothing like this woman who’d kidnapped his friend, who had tortured a woman and operated on her. We are not the same.

  “Sedate him.” Ekeroth said, as if she’d said it many times before.

  Kellen struggled harder, his air cut off, stars bursting before his eyes.

  “Kellen,” someone said, not Abby.

  Kellen looked toward the direction of the voice.

  Izmit had one eye open, his hands curled around the object Abby had dropped. “Close your eyes.”

  Chapter 8 – Gliese 667 C

  Somewhere between her last memory and now, Sheemi had retched in her suit. She didn’t mind the smell this time. She was alive. The Hexi had failed to kill them.

  Where were they now? Had Dauntless gone between universes, or had it ripped itself apart, with them spinning free in the bus, waiting for a slow death as the oxygen ran out? Her head hurt, and a tingling sensation spread from her right elbow to her fingertips. Something had happened, all right.

  The comm clicked on.

  “Captain Alvares,” Colonel Go barked. “Report!”

  “Computer validating,” he said, sounding groggy. “Building ephemeris.”

  “Target position confirmed and out-phase complete. We’re validated,” said another nav, a female, Trediakovsky maybe.