Skies Discrowned and An Epitaph in Rust

by Tim Powers

  At that moment the door at the far end of the hall was flung open by a gang of gray-uniformed androids who uttered glad shouts and bore down upon the four half-fuddled actors.

  Spencer whipped the door open and leaped through after his three companions, whirling on the other side to lock it by twisting a disk on the knob. The air was stuffy and still, and he realized they were in another room. “Turn on the lights!” he barked. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Thomas’ groping hand found a switch; he flipped it on and the room was abruptly flooded with illumination.

  Sitting up on their blanketless beds, blinking and whimpering at the sudden light, were what appeared to be nine grossly obese naked men. “Lights out!” one of them squeaked, and the rest took up the cry like a flock of parrots: “Lights out! Lights out!”

  “You three hold the door,” Spencer snapped. The androids on the other side were already kicking and pounding on it. “I’ve got an idea.”

  While Thomas, Negri and Jeff tried to pull on the doorknob and duck the splintering glass of the crumpling window, Spencer raced to the door at the far end of the room, which proved to be, as he’d expected, locked. He dragged the nearest bed over to it and lifted one end so that the whimpering occupant was spilled squashily onto the floor in front of the locked door. Then Spencer ran back to his companions, whipping off his shirt.

  The reinforced window-glass had been punched nearly out of its frame, and android hands were reaching through and plucking at the young men’s hair and shirts. “Hurry, Spence!” Thomas gasped.

  Spencer wrapped the head of one of the shovels in his shirt, and then fished a matchbook out of his pocket and struck a match to the fabric. It was slow to take the flame, but after a few door-pounding, glass-splintering seconds it began to flicker alight.

  Spencer turned to the far door, raised the shovel over his shoulder and, running forward, flung the makeshift spear at the bloated android on the floor.

  It arced through the still air, spinning lazily and trailing smoke, and then thudded into the creature’s distended belly. There was a muffled bang, a flash of light and a cloud of acrid smoke, and they heard the door bounce on concrete outside.

  “Let’s go,” Spencer panted; unnecessarily, for the other three had already released their door and were following him at a dead run toward the empty, smoke-clouded doorway, while the remaining occupants of the beds gibbered, “Lights out! Lights out!”

  When Thomas burst out through the doorway, practically on the heels of Negri, the first thing he noticed was the temperature—the night air was hot and dry, blowing from the east. He followed his companions as they ran across the dark lawn, cringing, as he ran, in anticipation of the tearing impact of a bullet in his back.

  “Get moving, Rufus,” Spencer gritted, seizing Thomas by the shoulder and pulling him along. Jeff grabbed his other arm, and Thomas found himself being nearly carried toward the fence.

  Hard footsteps pounded on the lawn behind them, but the four of them had reached the fence now, and helped each other scramble and fall over it several seconds before the androids arrived and began shooting their pistols through the boards.

  “Give yourselves up,” the androids called calmly as their bullets hammered at the splintering boards of the fence. “Give yourselves up.” When they had emptied their revolvers, one of them climbed onto another’s shoulders and peered through the strands of barbed wire at the empty stretch of Main Street beyond. A few lights had gone on in nearby buildings, but no one came outside to investigate the shooting. The android looked up and down the street, peered at the sidewalk below, and sniffed curiously at the hot night wind as if hoping to catch the fugitives’ scent.

  “They’re gone,” he said finally. He leaped down and they holstered their guns and plodded back across the grass toward the buildings.

  On the other side of the street four figures darted out of a shadowed drugstore doorway and fled silently away.

  “Hey,” Thomas said drowsily. “This isn’t the Bellamy Theatre.”

  “You don’t miss a lot, do you?” growled Negri. “We’re back at the Blind Moon.”

  “Why? Aren’t we ever going to get to sleep?”

  “We’ve got to establish our alibi,” Spencer explained as they turned into the alley that led to the bar’s rear door. “We’ve got to give people the idea that we’ve been here all evening.”

  “Evening?” Thomas protested. “It must be nearly dawn.”

  “It’s only a quarter to ten,” Jeff said. “I saw the city hall clock about five minutes ago.”

  “Jesus.” Thomas shook his head in dull wonder and followed Spencer into the rear of the kitchen. It was empty except for a teenage boy who stood at the sinks, languidly running a wet rag over dishes and dropping them into the water.

  “What were you doing out there, Spence?” the boy asked.

  “Getting a bit of fresh air, we were,” Spencer told him. The four of them filed past and stepped through the kitchen door into the crowded, noisy, smoke-layered public room. They managed to find a table, near the door, and sat down with relaxed sighs.

  Spencer immediately bounded to his feet. “My God,” he gasped. “I was supposed to meet Evelyn at nine under Bush-head. I’ll see you later. Or tomorrow.” He opened the door and sprinted away down the sidewalk.

  “Bush-head?” Thomas echoed as the door banged shut.

  “It’s a statue of Mayor Pelias down by the mission church,” Jeff said. “About three years ago, when he began to get really unpopular, somebody looped a rope around the statue’s head and tried to pull it down. All that happened was the head broke off. A year or so later—ah, the beer already! Thank you, miss—a year or so later somebody wired a big tumbleweed onto the neck-post; so everybody calls it Johnny Bush-head.”

  “Huh.” Thomas poured himself a beer and sipped it thoughtfully.

  “Want to throw some darts?” Negri asked Jeff. Jeff nodded and they stood up and moved away, taking the pitcher with them. Thomas idly traced designs in the dampness on his glass.

  A minute or so later, a paunchy old man with wisps of gray hair trailing across his shiny, mottled scalp sat down across from Thomas. “All right if I join you?” he asked hesitantly.

  He was carrying a glass and a new pitcher of beer, so there was some sincerity in Thomas’ voice when he said, “Certainly, certainly.”

  “Thank you. Here, let me fill your glass.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “Not at all.” He leaned back and set the pitcher down. “You’re a friend of Spencer’s?” Thomas nodded. “A fine lad, he is,” the old man went on. “Are you an actor too?”

  “Yes,” Thomas answered.

  “I’ll have to make it over to see the play. One of Shakespeare’s best, I’ve always thought.”

  Thomas looked at him. “Really? I much prefer… oh, Lear, or Macbeth, or Julius Caesar.”

  The old man blinked. “An educated man, I perceive! Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gardener Jenkins.” He cocked a hopeful eyebrow at Thomas, then lowered it when Thomas showed no recognition of the name. “I was—still am, in a way—a professor of philosophy at the University at Berkeley.”

  “Oh,” said Thomas politely. “What brings you so far south?”

  Jenkins pulled a pint bottle of bourbon out of his pocket, uncorked it and topped off his glass of beer with the dark brown whiskey. He sipped it and nodded with satisfaction. “What? Oh, yes. I’m at work on a… very big project, you see, research that couldn’t be done at Berkeley.” He chuckled ruefully. “And it couldn’t be done here, either, I discovered.”

  Thomas looked more closely at him, noticing now the puffy face and broken-veined skin of the long-time alcoholic. “Oh?” he said, curious about the scholarly old rummy.

  “Indeed. Have you ever heard of J. Heinemann Strogoff?”

  “Wait a minute,” Thomas said. “Strogoff. Yeah. He was a scientist—right?—and he did a lot of genetic research, and died abou
t ten years ago. I read a pamphlet about him. Loki Ascendant, it was called.”

  “Good God, son, where did you see a copy of that? I thought mine was the last extant copy outside of a few monastic libraries.”

  “My grandfather had one,” Thomas said quickly. “Lost now, I’m certain. Anyway, it said a lot of horrible things about Strogoff.”

  “Well, sure. It was published by the Church, and the clergy was very hostile toward Strogoff’s work.”

  “What was his work, exactly? The pamphlet talked about…‘soulless constructs,’ I recall—”

  “He was a biologist and a philosopher. His evaluation of Locke is still considered the definitive one. But what he’s famous for, and what set the Church against him, is his work with artificial and mutated species. The tax-birds, the forest dwarves, the sewer-singers, even the androids—all the weird, semi-rational creatures you find in and around the southern California city-states—were developed by Strogoff and his successors.” He took a sip of his fortified beer.

  A fight at the bar distracted Thomas for a moment. This place certainly isn’t restful, he thought. I wonder if I could find my way alone back to the Bellamy. I guess not. Maybe I’ll go sleep in the car, though.

  He turned back to his companion. “So how has the study of Strogoff brought you here?” And to this, he added to himself.

  “I was—am—editing the Collected Letters of J. Heinemann Strogoff.” He rolled the title off with evident relish. “I’m nearly finished, too.” Jenkins frowned deeply. “Two days before he died, Strogoff wrote a letter to Louis Hancock, who was then the major-domo of Los Angeles. I found part of the carbon of that letter—just a torn-off piece—in the Berkeley collection of Strogoff’s papers. It… it seemed, from what sense I could make of it, that Strogoff was threatening Hancock. And pleading with him, too, at the same time. Anyhow, I figured the complete letter definitely belonged in my book; it was probably the last letter he ever wrote, for one thing.” Thomas refilled his glass from Jenkins’ pitcher, and shook his head when the old man raised the whiskey bottle invitingly. “So,” Jenkins went on, “I came to L.A. four years ago. Figured I’d look up Hancock and talk him into letting me make a copy of the complete letter. Hah! Hancock was two years dead when I got here. Killed himself. And his papers were locked in the city archives, where they still, I suppose, are.”

  “Won’t they let you see them?” Thomas asked.

  “No. Christ knows why—clerks just think that way, I guess. I’ve made a hundred requests, phrased a hundred different ways. The University even wrote to Pelias, asking him to give me access. No dice.”

  “And you’ve just stayed on.”

  Jenkins nodded. “That’s right. After a while those bastards at the University terminated my contract. And me with tenure! So I stayed. Money ran out and I got a job on the Greeter. I’ll head back up to Berkeley sometime, pick up my stuff and publish the book somewhere else. But… there’s no hurry.” The level of his drink had lowered, and he refilled it with the bourbon. “No hurry,” he repeated vacantly.

  Thomas nodded doubtfully. “I’ll see you later,” he said, getting laboriously to his feet.

  “Yeah, take it easy,” Jenkins said with a wave.

  Thomas looked around at the crowd, but failed to see Jeff or Negri. He walked outside, found the car, and curled up in one of the back seats. The warm eastern wind that was sifting fine dust over the dark streets had kept the car from becoming chilly, and Thomas sank immediately into a deep sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Girl at the Far End of the Row

  AS SOON AS HE awoke, Thomas knew he was sick. His nose was completely stopped up, his mouth was dry from having breathed through it all night, his throat hurt when he swallowed, and he had a small, tight headache under his left ear.

  “Creeping Jesus,” he moaned thickly, rolling over. I’m in my bed at least, he thought. He forced his eyes open and found himself staring at the stone head on the shelf. “Good morning,” he croaked at it.

  Once he stood up he felt a little better. He slid into his shirt and pants and padded barefoot to the greenroom. Spencer was there, talking to a half-dozen people Thomas didn’t know.

  “Damn, look what shambled out of the swamp,” Spencer grinned. “Mornin’, Rufe.”

  “G’morning.” Thomas slumped into a chair.

  “You sound awful,” spoke up a pretty, auburn-haired girl. “Got a cold?” Thomas considered it, then nodded. “It’s this Santa Ana wind,” she said. “Comes in from the desert.”

  “Gang, this is Rufus,” Spencer said. “Rufe, I won’t run through everybody’s names, because you wouldn’t remember them anyhow. This is the guy,” he remarked to the others, “who split the skull of the android that was about to put a bullet into me.”

  They nodded and looked at Thomas more respectfully. The auburn-haired girl crossed the room and sat on the arm of his chair. “Would you like some breakfast?” she inquired.

  “Um… coffee,” Thomas said. “Thank you. Hot, with sugar.”

  “You just sit there and rest, hon. I’ll bring it.” She scurried out of the room.

  “Well, Rufus,” said a tall, hearty-voiced young man with short-cropped hair, “I understand you are, to a certain extent, one of us.” A couple of the others shot sharp looks at him.

  “Yes,” answered Thomas, too tired to care whether there had been sarcasm in the man’s sentence.

  “Say,” put in a girl across the room. “How’s Pelias? Does anyone know?”

  Several people shrugged. “Somebody told me,” said Thomas, “that he’s probably dead, and the government’s scared to admit it.”

  “That may be,” nodded the short-haired man. “Hell, it’s been three days now since the, uh, resistance guerrillas detonated those two bombs in his house. The administrators may well be holding a corpse and stalling for time.”

  “I never permit political talk in the greenroom, Lambert, as you know,” said Gladhand, who had propelled his wheelchair in the door. “In our line of work it’s an unaffordable luxury.” He looked around at the group. “And speaking of our line of work, everybody had better remember to be at the noon rehearsal today. We’ll have two newcomers—Rufus here, and hopefully a girl to play Rosalind.” Everyone shifted uncomfortably. Jean must have been doing Rosalind, Thomas realized. “Where’s Alice?” the manager went on. “Not here? Well, when she shows, have her finish nailing up the Arden set. Rufus, why don’t you come along with me. I’ll pick the new girl and then explain everything to both of you at once.”

  The girl returned with Thomas’ coffee; he thanked her and then followed Gladhand down the corridor, taking cautious sips of the hot brew.

  “I sent a boy to the L.A. Greeter office last night,” Gladhand said over his shoulder. “Had him put an ad in this morning’s paper. ‘Actress wanted, for the part of Rosalind in As You Like It. Apply at the Bellamy Theatre, 10 A.M.’ With the city in its current uproar, I have no idea what kind of response it’ll draw. Might be nobody, might be every female north of Pico.”

  They took a side hallway that led between two heavy curtains and eventually out onto the stage. The house lamps were lit and three broad, scrimmed spots illuminated the stage. Jeff stood in the central aisle, near the lobby doors.

  “Have we got any, Jeff?” Gladhand called.

  “Yes sir, a good dozen.”

  “Trot ’em in.” The theatre manager turned to Thomas. “By the way, uh, Rufus, I want to have it established that no further escapades like last night’s will take place. Spencer told me about it. I can see your motivations, but nothing like that must ever recur. I’ve already spoken to him and Robert and Jeff. I hope I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir,” said Thomas, embarrassed. “It won’t recur.”

  “Good lad! Now look sharp, I may want your advice on these young ladies.”

  A gaggle of women entered and walked uncertainly down the aisle. “If you’ll all just sit down in the front row, ladies, we’l
l commence,” Gladhand said loudly. The women filed along the row and found seats.

  Thomas regarded them curiously, in spite of feeling semi-undressed without his shoes on. Several were obviously too fat, and a couple looked too old to him, though he admittedly had no idea what could or could not be accomplished with makeup. That skinny little girl there might do, he thought, or—then he noticed the girl at the far end of the row.

  She had a round face, with black bangs cut off in a line just above her heavy-lidded eyes. She didn’t chat with the others, simply watched Gladhand and Thomas with an air of wary amusement. She wore a gray sweater, over the neck of which was folded the collar of her pale blue blouse.

  “The first thing,” said Gladhand, wheeling to the edge of the stage, “that I should make clear is the fact that I pay no salaries. My actors live on the premises and receive room, board and clothing byway of payment.”

  “How’s that going to feed my kids?” queried a broad-shouldered woman in a hat.

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid it will not. The position I offer is suitable only to an unattached person with no pressing responsibilities.”

  The woman in the hat, and several others, stood up, picked their way out of the row and strode impatiently up the aisle. One paused at the door to make a rude gesture. Six remained sitting, and a couple of these looked doubtful. The expression, though, of the girl at the far end had not changed. I think she’s the one for it, Thomas decided.

  “Well,” said Gladhand, “now that we’re weeded down to a manageable number, tell me about yourselves. You first.” He pointed at the over-made-up girl who sat nearest the aisle.

  She stood up. “Well, sir, I feel a… creative urge within me that demands expression in the theatre, treading the boards. I have too vast a soul, you see, to keep it to myself. In a manner of speaking, I am Life. To me—

  “Please,” said Gladhand firmly. “That’s enough.”