“Before the river, Mr. Brown. I’ve read your records. You remember being killed by a train. Your body would have been broken; your brain utterly destroyed. And yet you are here, having appeared in a river moments after death. Doesn’t that strike you as odd, Mr. Brown? That you could appear unscathed in the river minutes after being destroyed; that you, as insignificant a person who ever breathed, were preserved in total defiance of physical laws; in blatant disregard of whatever rules that seemed to govern the beforelife?”
“Well . . . yeah . . . but I don’t see how —”
“This is because there are no rules, Mr. Brown. Not here. Not in Detroit. There are no physical laws at all. And this is because Detroit is not the physical realm we think we see.”
He prodded Isaac in the shoulder, presumably as a demonstration of the tangible, physical world.
“It merely appears so,” he continued, “because that is what we expect. Do you understand, Mr. Brown, somewhere in the dusty corners of that singularly unremarkable mind of yours? Are you capable of making the leap required to see beyond the apparent? Our expectations are the key. The world of physics and biology, the world of bricks and trees and glass and dental appointments, is a construct — a mere illusion born of expectation and desire, bending instantly to the individual wills of the souls who fill it. What we expect becomes our truth.”
Ian stared at the City Solicitor blankly. What we expect becomes our truth? This was Sharing Room philosophy. If you believe it, you can achieve it. It wasn’t even a real philosophy, just a trumped-up bit of wishful thinking that attracted the crystal-wearing, hemp-weaving crowd. Oan preached the same ideas. Of course, Oan had never opened a rift in one of her patients, or made books disappear into clouds of mist, or trapped a churchful of victims in amber tombs, all by waving her hand and making grumpy faces. But still — no rules? It wasn’t something Ian could swallow. The world had to have rules. Effects had causes. Time moved forward. Bishops moved diagonally. Rules made sense. That was just the way things worked. The rules held everything together.
“You can’t expect me to believe that,” said Ian. “You expect me to believe that everyone in Detroit has superpowers? That they can wave a hand and do whatever they like? Well, fine. I want to go home.” He waved his hands in a conjuring gesture. “What a surprise. It didn’t work. I must be doing it wrong. Perhaps my crystals aren’t attuned to the right frequency.”
A little snarky for Ian Brown, it’s true. But even regulatory compliance officers have their limits, and Ian’s limits had been crossed.
The City Solicitor’s eyes narrowed. “I expect nothing of you, Brown,” he rasped, a shade too diabolically for Ian’s preferences. “But your observation is correct, from a limited point of view. Detroit no longer functions as intended. Our expectations fail us. And for this we can thank Abe, your cherished mayor, and those who helped him Tame the Wild — those who passed into Detroit when the world was young.”
Ian concentrated every ounce of his strength on breaking the unseen bonds that held his legs. It didn’t do any good. But it didn’t hurt, and that was something.
“I wonder, Mr. Brown, if one of your limited capacities can imagine what it would have been like for them — for the First Ones, those who entered a world unencumbered by rules or order. They came upon a world without limits, apart from those they set for themselves. They could build universes, Brown, worlds within worlds that reflected their own visions. It must have been rapturous. Everything they’d ever dreamed of, every wish fulfilled in an instant.”
He spun dramatically on his heel. “But their rapture would be short-lived. They would soon taste what it truly meant to live in a world bereft of limitations — a world that was held in thrall by the conflicting, contradictory desires of all who live there, they —”
“I’ve heard this bit,” said Ian, still wriggling against the bonds. “Punt described it. He said Utopia doesn’t work. Person A wants to sleep with Person B, Person B finds him repulsive; someone’s going to be disappointed. Person 1 wants an ocean made of pudding, Person 2 is a deep-sea diver. I get it. Life can’t work that way. What’s your point?”
“My point is that Abe and his collaborators perceived the need for order. They saw the chaos that could arise in a world of contradictory wishes, where every soul seeks to shape the universe into the image it prefers. That’s why Abe fears the anomaly, Mr. Brown. What do you think would happen if the public saw the anomaly’s power? If they knew that all that stood between them and untold power — the power to have whatever they wished — was focused will; whatever mental strength it takes to break the illusory constraints that Abe himself has willed into being?”
This seemed to be a rhetorical question, because the City Solicitor didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he continued talking, veering into territory about the causes of social breakdown, the constraints imposed by Abe, and how Abe’s cleverest trick was manifesting the Styx — a way to cloud the minds of the newly manifested. It controlled their expectations, willing them to forget the beforelife and sapping them of the will to see beyond a world of rules.
He also said a lot about the Republic.
A lot of the ensuing speech washed over Ian in the same way that a political tirade washes over a fern. The speech happened, Ian was there, and that was all he could have honestly reported if he’d been asked to fill out a post-lecture questionnaire. He was still struggling against whatever force held him, and — much like the small, mouse-like mammals that had evolved into clan Brown — searching desperately for an avenue of escape.
But then something about the City Solicitor’s speech burrowed into Ian’s mind, waved its arms, and jumped up and down until it was noticed.
There are no rules, he had said. No limits apart from those we make ourselves, and those that Abe and other ancients have imposed. Anyone with the strength of will to challenge Abe, to break through his psychic constraints, had the power to bend the world to suit his wishes.
It was bollocks, of course, but it fit nicely under the heading “Rules that Make Detroit Tick.” If those were supposed to be The Rules, Ian had learned them, such as they were, and Vera had said that learning The Rules would lead to Penny.
Ian looked around the cavern with renewed interest. The City Solicitor carried on with the lecture.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Isaac, stepping forward.
“What is it now?” said the City Solicitor, with the sort of look that Dr. King might have made if someone had interrupted his speech and said, “Oooh, I have a dream too; is yours the one where you go to school without any pants?”
Isaac didn’t appear to notice.
“It’s just . . . well, you appear to be doing it, sir.”
“Doing what?”
“What you said you wouldn’t. Revealing the plot to Brown, before you set your plans in motion. You’re explaining it to him, sir, precisely like the antagonists in the books you referenced earlier. It’s extraordinary to see. You intend to depart from this established pattern, and yet you find yourself inexorably caught up in it. It’s almost as though that Feynman person was right, and that —”
“It’s the Author’s will!” shouted a defiant, off-stage voice, which interrupted itself with a cough.
Rhinnick limped boldly out of the shadows, clutching a wound in his right side.
“And that, you silly ass,” he said, straining against the pain, “should prove it to you. The world is a novel; the Author writes it, and you are powerless to escape the stroke of His pen. We are all controlled by narrative convention. If the Author chooses to fall back on the tried and true method of having the black-hat-wearing heavy explain the ins and outs of things before a final, climactic rescue, you must yield to the Author’s will. You haven’t a choice. So carry on. May the Author speed your monologuing. An action-packed, heroic rescue is sure to follow.”
It was funny, Ian reflected, t
hat it had taken until this moment to see the kind of man that Rhinnick really was. He was the sort of man who, having been on the uncomfortable end of the City Solicitor’s power, still kept coming back for more, not content to hide in the shadows when he stood a chance of helping a pal in trouble. He rallied ’round and came to the aid of the party, as he might have said. He’d probably say that he had no choice; that it was something written into his character sketch — right beneath the bit about palpable machismo.
“ENOUGH!” shouted the City Solicitor. If there was a flaw in Rhinnick’s character, it was his capacity for ticking off those who were in a position to do him a serious bit of no good.
“The time has come to end you, Mr. Brown,” said the Solicitor. “I hope you appreciate the irony. In a world where you could have had anything you wanted, you’ve managed to find only death.”
“But I didn’t want anything,” said Ian, suddenly trembling. “I just wanted to find my wife.”
“How little you understand,” said the City Solicitor, smiling. “Finding your wife is the one thing I cannot allow you to do.”
The City Solicitor raised Socrates’ gun.
It was at this goose-pimply moment that Ian was struck by a sudden thought. It was the sort of thought that shows up unexpectedly, that starts out deep in your marrow and suddenly shimmies its way through every part of your body. It was this:
I wish that Tonto were here.
And then a voice in Ian’s head said something surprising. It said this:
“She is.”
The air in the cavern screamed. It was a tooth-shattering, nails-on-blackboard scream, the sort you get from a circular saw when it hits a knot in a hardwood plank. Isaac, Rhinnick, and Ian winced and covered their ears. The cavern walls rippled like pavement blurred by heat. The shadows boiled. Heat and pressure filled the grotto. Detroit shifted on its axis.
Tonto stepped out of the shadows.
She looked a good deal more confused than usual, but otherwise unimpaired. Steam appeared to rise from her body.
She looked at Ian.
He was terrified, and Tonto could see why.
The City Solicitor was poised to kill him. That was all she needed to know.
Tonto pounced.
She closed the distance to the City Solicitor with a flying leap that presented such an awe-inspiring tableau of grace and ferocity that even the French and Russian judges would have awarded perfect 10s. Her flying kick should have taken the City Solicitor’s head clean off. It really should have. In at least eleven parallel worlds, it did. But in this one . . .
It wouldn’t be fair to say that the City Solicitor moved, because he didn’t. It would be more accurate to say that the world instantly rearranged itself so that he wasn’t standing in the spot where Tonto kicked.
Reality reorganized itself. Tonto’s foot connected with the cavern wall and removed a sizable chunk of stone. She took the rebound, dropped to the ground, and rolled into a crouch, obviously confused, but ready to spring.
Isaac ran away and hid behind a column.
“You’re out of your depth, Ms. Choudhury,” said the City Solicitor, who’d reappeared several feet from where he’d been standing. He grinned an especially evil grin. And for the second time in less than an hour, Tonto’s muscles froze.
“Damn you!” she screamed, straining to move.
“Barring further interruptions,” said the City Solicitor, pointedly ignoring Tonto’s screams, “I think it’s time we concluded our business. Ms. Choudhury, perhaps you could help me test a theory. I’m particularly interested in seeing how this will affect you.”
He raised Socrates’ gun again, and aimed at Ian.
“Goodbye, Mr. Brown,” he said, calmly. “I trust your next life will be more to your liking.”
“Don’t you hurt him!” Tonto cried, while Rhinnick and Ian stared and trembled.
The City Solicitor fired.
BANG.
The bang was followed closely by a “pew,” a “ping,” and a “pang,” as the City Solicitor’s Stygian round ricocheted off the cavern walls.
Ian had felt the bullet part his hair.
“You missed, sir,” said Isaac, helpfully.
“I see that,” said the City Solicitor, frowning darkly and steadying his aim, willing his next shot to find its target. He fired again.
BANG.
Another “pew,” another “ping,” another “pang.” Another miss. It was almost as though some sort of invisible, protective barrier was redirecting the bullets just before they could strike their target.
And if you want to read the preceding sentence without the words “It was almost as though,” you wouldn’t be wrong to do so.
The City Solicitor fired again. Again, he missed.
“I mean to say,” said Rhinnick, limping forward, toward Tonto, “you’d think that a fellow who thought he could fold the fabric of whateveryousaid could hit the broadside of a Brown with a loaded pistol. Not that I approve, of course, unsporting and all that, but it’s dashed surprising, what?”
The City Solicitor narrowed his eyes, Eastwood-style, and grumbled.
The world rearranged itself such that the City Solicitor stood only an arm’s length from Ian. He raised his arm. He pressed the barrel of Socrates’ gun to Ian’s forehead. Ian cringed.
“I will not miss you, Mr. Brown,” said the City Solicitor.
This was ambiguous, but also correct in every respect.
BANG.
No “pew,” no “ping,” no “pang.” He didn’t miss.
The bullet passed directly through the centre of Ian’s skull — a skull that was surprised to find a few bits of its back acreage splashing into the Styx.
Rhinnick and Tonto screamed. Isaac gaped. The City Solicitor smiled and lowered the gun.
The world went dark for Ian, and he was gone.
And then the body that had formerly thought of itself as Ian fell backward, off the stage, and into the Styx.
Chapter 43
The train came. The train went. The train stopped.
But not before something horrible had happened.
Penelope lay mangled on the tracks, her last erratic, shallow breaths spurting fluids onto her chest. Her vision blurred. Her mind raced. She told herself that Ian would live. He had to live. She willed Ian to live. She knew she was going to die, but he’d go on.
The last thing she saw was the magazine that she’d been reading, fluttering onto the tracks beside her. It’s funny, the things your mind latches onto when you’re running out of time. Penelope, for example, couldn’t help but fixate on the model shown on page 137. She was Indian. She seemed kind. And she was the single most eye-grabbingly beautiful woman that Penny had ever seen.
I will save Ian.
Penelope closed her eyes, and died.
* * *
The body that had thought of itself as Ian was lying face down in a river — a river so cold that it stung. He wondered why there was so much blood.
He placed a hand on his forehead. It was bleeding, but the blood flow seemed to be slowing. The body that had thought of itself as Ian thought this was a good sign. He raised his head above the surface and gulped a lungful of air. The body that had thought of itself as Ian decided that breathing, on the whole, was a good idea.
Where am I? he thought. What am I doing?
And who do I mean by ‘I’?
He had no memory of what had happened. He had no memory at all. But he had the oddest feeling that something important had happened not so long ago, and that this something involved him. Something was missing, though. Something he’d had. Something inside him that had been . . . not lost, exactly, but . . . perhaps unleashed.
Something brushed against his leg. There was someone else in the water — another body — an unconscious woman lying under the riv
er’s surface, swaying gently with the current.
The body that had thought of itself as Ian grabbed her wrist.
He scrabbled against the riverbed and dragged the woman ashore, pulling her just out of the water, collapsing onto the ground beside her and rolling her over on to her back.
He brushed the hair away from her face. She was breathing.
She didn’t seem the least bit familiar. But then again, nothing did.
The body that had thought of itself as Ian held the woman’s hand for a moment, patted her head, and raised himself to his knees.
He looked around. He was in a cavern. How did he know the word “cavern”? And he heard voices. He couldn’t see the people who owned them, as he’d emerged from the river behind some kind of stage. But the voices didn’t sound happy. They seemed to be arguing about something.
The body that had thought of itself as Ian wondered why they argued.
The body that had thought of itself as Ian shrugged. Nothing to do with me, he decided.
He knelt beside the woman and gave her a second look. Her eyes had opened. She was smiling, for some reason. The body that had thought of itself as Ian wondered why. He cocked his head to one side.
She whispered something.
The body that had thought of itself as Ian leaned in closer.
She whispered something again. It was something profound. Something too private for publication.
Time stood still for the body that had thought of itself as Ian.
Then something unexpected happened.
Ian stood up.
He felt a rush of adrenaline as memory flooded through him — memories of Penelope, of the beforelife, of his life here in Detroit — Rhinnick, Zeus, Nappy, Vera, the City Solicitor. It all came back, flooding into him with a force that propelled him forward, calling for action.
He looked down at Penelope. She’d fallen asleep. He crouched beside her and touched her face. She’d be fine for the time being, tucked away behind the stage. In the meantime, there was one surefire way he could ensure that she’d stay safe.
Beforelife Page 47