Now witness Abe glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one is looking. Finding the coast clear, Abe leans out over the balcony and spits mintily over the edge.
He hits a ledge on the forty-seventh storey and awards himself twelve points.
The view from the top of the Spiral Minaret was one of Abe’s favourite sights in all of Detroit. It allowed him to look out over a seemingly endless canopy so lushly green and leafy that it called to mind a million-acre salad. It lacked visible croutons and showed no discernable signs of vinaigrette, and it also featured flocks of brightly coloured birds gliding over the treetops and noisy masses of hooting, yowling, snuffling, and chittering wildlife trying to eat and/or have sex with one another, but apart from those details the forest was highly saladesque.
Heavy morning mists drifted across the canopy, water droplets twinkling brightly in reflected motes of dawn.
Abe yawned, stretched hugely, turned his back on the majestic view, and stepped through a wide sandstone archway into a chamber that was currently designated the Mayoral Loo. He leaned against the marble sink and peered into the mirror.
Abe was looking for signs of change: a new laugh line, a fresh grey hair — any apparent sign of aging. There were none. This was expected. Abe’s face, in particular, hadn’t shown a sign of change for close to twenty-five hundred years, not since an unexpected boil had launched the public into a panic. There’d been a press release about it. The city’s newspad services had worked around the clock for weeks in the grip of widespread fear that this mayoral boil was a sign — a sign that Abe the First, immutable rock upon which the City of Splendours had been built, was starting to change. Some predicted he’d leave office, sending civilization spiralling into chaos. End of Times Prophets took to the streets sporting sandwich boards and ratty sack-cloth robes, prevailing upon the denizens of Detroit to set aside their Wicked Habits and prepare for the coming doom. Some commentators predicted that Abe was on the verge of total physical transformation, or perhaps even going mad — either of which would have been fine by most Detroitians, just so long as he stayed in office. Boilwatch had been the universal preoccupation for twelve days. Then Abe — who’d found the whole thing quite amusing — popped the boil while visiting one of Detroit’s suburbs. There were twelve days of nervous celebration followed by a municipal ceremony. The place where Abe had thwarted the boil was officially renamed to mark the occasion.
By now, Abe imagined, most people would have forgotten all about the mayoral boil, let alone the reason they’d named the suburb Lansing.
It hadn’t been mere affection for the mayor that led the people of Detroit to fuss over Abe’s well-being. It was their fear of instability. Abe had ruled Detroit since the Dawn of Time — a Dawn that had taken place 18,182½ years ago, when Abe had emerged from the Styx as the world’s first sentient being. People who came afterward — all people, in other words — had simply known, at their core, that Abe was in charge. Abe’s leadership was built-in — like gravity, or friction, or the way wet is built into water. The thought of Abe leaving office was unthinkable. The very idea was more than most people could bear. The thing that people desire most — including those who live in Detroit — is the cozy, comforting sense that tomorrow will look the same as today. They want stability. And in Detroit, stability meant Abe.
Abe’s reflections on his reflection were interrupted by that quiet, tortured, throat-clearing noise that is generally made by the sort of timid lackey who tries to attract a superior’s attention while desperately hoping not to.
The throat clearer was Brother Reggie, a terminally skittish acolyte of the Ancient Order of Ao. He shuffled nervously on the spot while clutching a broad-brimmed straw hat in front of his chest.
You might be puzzled by the anxiety. Your confusion is understandable. By now you’ve realized that Abe is one of nature’s Nice People, and not the sort to inspire bowel-wobbling terror. He’s practically famous for it. To be weighed against this, of course, was that incident with that gang of anti-government conspirators, the mysterious goat, the endless nightmares, and the ceaseless, tortured screaming — but that had been a peculiar circumstance calling for a unique response.
“They’ve left the hospice, then?” said Abe, breaking the silence.
“Y-y-yes, Yer Honour,” stammered Reggie in a hayseed voice that belied a past featuring barnyard animals, pitchforks, and tobacco-spitting contests. “Three hours ago. No word on where they’re headed. The . . . uh . . . the woman is with ’em, sir,” he added, sweating. “Isaac reports the likelihood of . . . erm . . . caterstrophic continuity error at eight point three per cent, sir.”
“Thanks, Reg,” said Abe. He turned back toward the sink and fiddled with the taps.
“Erm . . . Yer Honour?”
“Yes, Reg?”
“Well, if it isn’t too much . . . I mean . . . it’s just that . . . uh . . . some of the other acolytes were wonderin’ somethin’, sir. If you don’t mind, I mean. They’d like to know, is all. What . . . uh . . . what do you think you’ll do about them?”
“What’ll I do?”
“Yessir. About them. Them people who’ve left the hospice, sir. It’s just that — beggin’ your pardon, Yer Honour, you’ve been a bit, um, unpredictable lately, sir. No disrespect intended o’ course.”
Abe smiled. This response had two immediate and measurable physiological effects on Reggie. First, it downgraded his current anxiety level from Code Red to a pale pink, allowing Reggie to unclench various clenchy bits of his person. Second, it permitted Reggie’s conversational floodgates — which had been straining against a rising tide — to burst.
“It’s them biographers,” Reggie began. “I mean, they’re runnin’ around like field mice on a griddle, Yer Honour, and they won’t stop natterin’ on about this ’ole caterclysm business,” he continued, gesturing vaguely toward the floors below. “They say they’re havin’ a bugger of a time keeping up with your comin’s and goin’s, an’ that a bit of a preview — a sort of advanced warnin’, if you take my meanin’, Yer Worship, would help . . . help ’em sketch out things ahead of time and save ’em a patch of work. They wanna know about the woman — this anomerly person who’s causin’ all the fuss. And about that Ian Brown feller, too. They want to know if you’ll be able tuh — well, tuh stop whatever it is yer suppose tuh stop. Any sort of ’eads up you could give ’em, sir — the biographers, I mean, would be much appreciated, Yer Honour. Beggin’ yer pardon o’ course, Yer Worship.”
“What have I told you about the biographers, Reg?” said Abe, still smiling.
“Don’t encourage ’em, Yer Honour,” Reggie replied, as if by rote. “We know you ain’t exactly a fan of ’em, Yer Worship, but it’s what the people want. It’s the history of the whole world, sir. So if you could see your way to, I dunno, just passin’ a few hints on what you might be up to next, it’d really . . . I dunno, uh . . . help ’em out. I guess. Yer Worship,” he added, trailing into a whimper and becoming, once again, intensely interested in his hat.
They’re frightened, Abe reflected. They’re frightened, and they think I know what’s coming.
This was true, of course — not that Abe in fact knew what was coming, which he didn’t. He hadn’t the foggiest. But it was true that everyone thought he knew what was coming. The fundamental problem here was that people didn’t understand how Abe worked, or what it meant to govern Detroit. Oh, they had a vague idea that Abe was the glue that held Detroit together, that he was the one who “made things happen,” so to speak, and that he held the city’s opposing factions, guilds, political camps, and interest groups in a shaky equilibrium through his unmatched strength of will and sheer force of personality. But they didn’t understand what all that meant. They assumed it was metaphorical, for one thing. They thought that “force of personality” was a dramatic way of describing personal charm, political acumen, and savvy. They didn’t understand a
t all. Most of the populace saw the mayor as affable Abe, trustworthy Abe, kindly Abe who solved disputes and kept the buses running. They had no sense of the man himself. They had no sense of the strength of will that Abe had needed when he’d washed ashore alone, the only sentient being in an endless wasteland. They had no notion of what it had taken to tame the wild. They hadn’t an inkling of the strength it took for Abe to remain sane through thirty years of isolation, until the Styx had finally produced Abe’s first companions.
Above all this, the people didn’t know Abe’s secret. They didn’t know that Abe the First, mayor of Detroit, the Eldest Ancient, remembered everything that had happened before his own manifestation.
Abe remembered what had happened before life.
“Erm, Yer Honour?” stammered Reggie.
“Right. Sorry about that, Reg. Just remind the biographers that I’ve left the City Solicitor in charge for the time being. Whatever’s coming, he’ll take care of it. He’s reliable. In the meantime, I’ll stay here and visit the abbot. Speaking of which . . . where is the abbot, anyway?”
“I am here, O Miserable Crust of a Yak’s Desiccated Excrement!” boomed the abbot, stepping through the entrance to Abe’s chamber. The abbot — also known as Hammurabi, Steward of Ao, Keeper of Records, and, most importantly for present purposes, closest friend of Abe the First — had to duck when passing through the sandstone archway, his overall shape and bearing suggesting that he’d been cast in the mould generally used for making blacksmiths, medieval barkeeps, and retired professional wrestlers. If you’re having any trouble pinning down a mental image, just try to picture Matron Bickerack sporting a pointy black beard while wearing white linen sheets and a tasselled fez.
And while I’ve got your attention, don’t be offended by all of that “miserable crust” business. Abe wasn’t. It was just Ham’s way, and it was partially Abe’s fault. Twelve hundred years ago, the mayor had introduced Hammurabi to the male bonding ritual of good-natured taunts and jibes. Ham still hadn’t acquired the knack.
“And I see, O Festering Pot of Slurry,” Ham continued, in a voice that was the auditory equivalent of CAPS LOCK, “that you are keeping my worthless acolytes from their duties.” He turned and eyed Reggie theatrically. “Brother Reginald!” he boomed, clapping his hands twice by way of punctuation. “Return to your studies before I decide the kitchen middens need to be churned!”
Reggie yelped and fled. His escape was briefly impeded by outlying regions of the abbot, which were still blocking the door. After a moment of awkward jostling, Reggie managed a half-orbit around Ham and then hared down the stairs, muttering something about the behaviour of the ancients.
“Heya, Ham,” said Abe.
“Bah! You can save your ‘Heya Hams’ for a time when you are behaving more sensibly, O Mysterious Morsel in a Camel’s Vomit!” boomed Ham, crossing his arms and shifting his posture into a full-body harrumph. “I heard what you said to Reggie. You persist in this folly, this imbecilic notion of leaving the City Solicitor in charge. Bah! You cannot trust this man, I tell you. He is a —”
“A loyal public servant?” hazarded Abe.
“The man is a snake,” said Ham.
“I like snakes.”
“Don’t change the subject. My point, O Incorrigible Ass, is that the man is evil. And yet you, a man without a trace of evil in your being, choose to leave that . . . that . . . that villain at the helm of your city. You should be done with him, O Unwashed Undergarment of a Burmit. You should —”
“I don’t see why you’re so — wait — undergarment of a whatnow?”
“A Burmit,” said Ham, a little defensively. “A sweaty people. Live in the highlands to the north. Known for herding kerrops and producing durable cloth.”
“Oh, right. Good one,” said Abe. “But I don’t see what you have against the Solicitor. He’s a good man at heart — he just gets carried away with his idea of making Detroit the perfect city. And even if you were right about him, what would you have me do? Send him off on his own, or keep him close at hand where I can watch over him, coach him along in the right directions?”
“Bah!” bellowed Ham, achieving a decibel level that caused several flakes of plaster to dislodge from the ceiling and cascade onto the abbot’s upper slopes. “You’ve never needed to keep anyone close at hand to know what they’re up to. Look at my monks. You had full knowledge of their dabbling in this . . . this insufferable Omega business weeks before I’d even heard of it. And all of it happening here, under my nose! You, leagues away in City Hall, busy with The-River-Knows-What, managed to learn of their involvement in this . . . this . . . this cult, while I was unforgivably ignorant of the entire affair. How you managed to sniff them out, while I was a blind, damnable fool I’ll never —”
“Don’t worry about it, Ham,” said Abe, waving him off. “You know how it is. A spectator sees more of the game. You’re too close. Besides, it wasn’t a big deal. A few monks passing around a couple of old books shouldn’t twist your burnoose.”
Like hell it shouldn’t, thought Abe. How did this Omega business take hold so quickly? How did it take hold here in the wild, thousands of miles from where Socrates had acquired the blasted book?
The blasted book. This was how Abe referred to the tattered, crumbling, grime-encrusted tome that Socrates had acquired two weeks ago, a book that was now in the City Solicitor’s hands. Isaac had taken to calling it the “Omega Missive,” which was as good a name as any. But whatever you called it, the book was a mystery. It had originally surfaced — so far as Abe could tell — no more than four weeks ago, about the time that Ian Brown had manifested. But these monks had already managed to build an entire philosophy around the text’s few legible passages. And when Abe had poked around in Reggie’s mind, he had uncovered a sincere belief that copies of the Omega Missive had secretly passed from hand to hand for twenty years.
It was as if the book had existed for twenty years, but also only for four weeks. Put another way, Abe reflected, the book had come into being twenty years ago, but this was only true since Ian’s manifestation.
That’s quite a trick, thought Abe.
Abe became aware that Ham was now stumping around the room, soliloquizing noisily on the topic of Reasons For Distrusting the Solicitor. He was presently focusing on the themes of “implacable evil” and “power rivalling your own,” punctuated by references to unseemly eating habits and questionable fashion sense.
“He has potential,” said Abe, flatly.
“What makes you say that, O Misguided Offspring of a Mule?” said Ham.
“Socrates, mostly,” said Abe.
“Pah!” boomed Ham, with enough volume to send several canopy-dwelling birds flocking off in search of kosher horizons.42 “Socrates? Socrates! The City Solicitor doesn’t even understand what Socrates is, the damnable fool. Nor does he understand himself. So much ignorance is dangerous when combined with so much power.”
“Listen, Ham,” said Abe. “I get it. I know the Solicitor is powerful. Probably more powerful than you think. He could have challenged me once, even though he manifested thousands of years after I did. But he doesn’t worry me. Not anymore. This woman, though . . . this . . . anomaly . . . she’s different. It’s possible that she could undo me.”
“You cannot mean this, O Eternal Wellspring of Inane Ideas. You cannot possibly believe that an untried youngling —”
“Of course I believe it,” said Abe. “You know the prophecies. They say that she could unravel everything we’ve built. And it’s true. Literally true. I’m certain of that much, at least. She could unravel everything and everyone in Detroit. She could destroy the City Council. She could end me. She could take everyone and everything all the way back to the beginning. And I’m not sure that I know how to stop her.”
“I see,” said Ham, who didn’t. “So your current plan is what? To let the Solicitor deal wi
th the anomaly, to let him test her strength? To see if she has weaknesses? Test them against one another, perhaps?” He fiddled thoughtfully with his beard and seemed to reach a conclusion. “So, it’s to be a titan against a titan, yes? There is some measure of wisdom in this, O Mildly Cunning Ox. If the Solicitor bests the anomaly, then our crisis is averted. And if he does not, well . . . at least you are rid of him, and will have learned much concerning the anomaly’s capabilities. Surprisingly clever,” he added, generously.
“That’s not exactly what I had in mind, Ham,” said Abe, smiling. “I just thought it’d be a good idea to let the City Solicitor take the reins for a bit. Take a bit of a holiday. If this woman is supposed to undo everything, she will. Maybe it’s for the best. There’s no point in fighting change.”
“You always have,” said Ham. “It’s what you’re for.”
“Nevertheless,” said Abe, gnomically.
“And what about this Ian person?” said Ham, brightening. “What will happen with him?”
“Oh, he’ll bumble along, I suppose. It’s what he does.”
“Beware,” said Ham. “I believe that Ian Brown may surprise you. He is far more powerful than you think.”
“No he isn’t,” said Abe. “He’s just an ordinary guy. Anyway, I’m not even certain that I should do anything to stop Ian. Or to stop the anomaly. Maybe we’re supposed to let the poor guy find his wife. Seems heartless not to.”
“Bah. In a thousand years he won’t remember her name. He will move on.”
“Have we moved on?” said Abe.
Ham shrugged a non-committal response.
“Anyway,” said Abe, turning back toward the mirror and peering intently at his eyebrows. “How bad could it be? If Ian’s able to find his wife, I don’t want to get in the way. And I think we should do likewise with the anomaly — just get out of the way and let things happen. Besides,” he added, tugging an errant hair, “even if I’m supposed to stop what might be coming, I don’t know that I can.”
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