by John Varley
The flame started at Whistlestop’s nose, and licked up his sides faster than the eye could follow. The sound was beyond imagining. A bloom of flames fifteen kilometers high roared into the air, and the blimp’s body crunched down on the spot where Gaea had been standing. It seemed to hesitate a moment, still held by internal gases not yet burning, then began a stately collapse. It took a long, long time.
Being lighter than air does not mean a blimp is not heavy. It simply means it masses less than the volume of air it displaces. The volume of Whistlestop’s gasbags alone was half a billion cubic feet; that amount of air at two atmospheres of pressure had tremendous mass.
The first half of Whistlestop seemed to accordion pretty much at the spot where Gaea had been. The rest of him tumbled, no longer held up by the hydrogen. It fell, burning, into the Universal studio and along the western wall. Everything but the rock itself began to burn.
The heat of the fire was intense at first, when it was a billowing plume that seemed to touch the sky. Cirocco did not move away, but had to hold her hand up to shield her face. She heard the ends of her hair sizzling, and thought her clothes were smoldering. Behind her, the army found their shields growing too hot to touch, and they were a kilometer away.
But that towering pyre of hydrogen died away quickly. Universal burned hot, but it was not unbearable.
The huge heap of dry canvas-like skin that had been Whistlestop was going to burn for some time. Everyone watched it. Gaea was under there. She was probably in the moat. No one knew how deep it might be.
After ten minutes of no movement, some of the troops behind her began to shout. Cirocco glanced around. They were throwing things in the air. They were daring to believe Gaea was dead. They gradually quieted when they saw that Cirocco was not moving.
She turned around, and watched the fire burn.
***
Two hundred panaflexes, over a thousand arriflexes, and uncounted bolexes died in the conflagration, taking with them priceless footage of the battle with the Giant Snake.
The Chief Cinematographer began ordering up battalions of photofauns from other studios…but it was hardly necessary. Most had stayed at their posts, morosely shooting a few feet when the Titanide bands went by their gate, but quite a few had started hurrying toward Universal when they heard the sounds of the snake tearing itself from the earth.
Then the great column of flame had erupted to the north.
Well.
They had their orders, but it was too damn much. It was like asking a hungry child to sit still and touch nothing in a room made of chocolate. It was like telling a horde of savage paparazzi that, just a block away, the Queen of England was balling the biggest television star in the world right in the middle of the road…but c’mon, fellas, please, respect their dignity, okay? They don’t want any pictures.
Almost as one, every bolex, arriflex, and panaflex in Pandemonium headed toward the fire, by the shortest possible route.
***
Chris emerged from the strand-forest into a strange quiet.
He looked cautiously around, and didn’t see anyone. They must all be at the wall, at defensive posts, he decided.
Not far from him was the northern end of the Fox Main Street. There was not much of the studio this close to the cable. There were trees, and lawns, and some shrubs. It was called Producers Park. Twice-life-size statues of past greats faced each other on each side of the road, standing on high pedestals listing their film credits. At the head of the road, with its back to Chris, was the even larger image of Irving Thalberg, presiding over the others: Goldwyn, Louis B. Mayer, Jack Warner, Zanuck, De Laurentiis, Ponti, Foreman, Lucas, Zamyatin, Fong, Cohn, Lasker—there were over a hundred of them, dwindling in the distance. They were in thoughtful poses, most of them looking downward so visitors to the park would look up and see themselves being regarded by the greats of cinema history.
All the statues regarded just then was a roadway covered with gold paint. It didn’t seem to upset them.
Chris no longer had his guiding light. He wondered what it had been, feeling sure Gaby had something to do with it.
Apparently she felt his course from here was clear. She had said hurry, and there was no one in sight. So he dodged around the statue of Thalberg and ran down the road.
The producers watched him in silence.
Far away to his left, he noticed the little plume of white smoke that meant a train was heading south on the monorail. He and Adam had been on it many times. It was one of the nicer things in Pandemonium.
He wondered if the people on it were aware the track was out at Universal.
***
A safe distance from the Paramount Gate, the Titanide Drum and Bugle Corps stopped playing, carefully put their instruments aside, and started off at a full gallop, continuing in their clockwise direction.
On the other side of Pandemonium, the Brass Band did the same.
Both actions were observed from the walls, of course. But the Titanides made no move toward the gates. They stayed a careful distance away from the wall, just out of cannon range.
Orders were specific. Stand and fight. Defend your gate. So while small detachments ran along the walls, vainly trying to keep up with the thundering herd and to report if they attempted to cross the moat and attack between gates, the actions had little effect on the defense of the Studio.
***
The forest came relatively close to the Fox Gate. That had been one consideration in Gaby’s mind.
It was defended by Gautama and Siddhartha, possibly the two least able military Priests. That had been important, too. That it was one hundred and eighty degrees away from Universal, as far away as one could get and still be in Pandemonium, had been a bit of luck. She felt she was due a little. She’d need some more to pull this off and not lose any of her friends.
On the bad side, Gautama had two companies of Minutemen with functional flintlock rifles. Siddhartha had a couple of cannons.
And Luther had a long way to go to reach Fox.
Gaby had been working on Luther’s deteriorating mind for some time. She used the discontent she found there and built on it. There was no way to sway him in his loyalty to Gaea, but he resented her just enough that he would not be as cautious as usual. She had managed to whisper in his ear back at his post at Goldwyn, and he was on his way. And she had a few more tricks in store.
Luther was a weak reed. She hated to rely on him so much. But she could not take direct actions within the walls of Pandemonium. Putting the staff of Tara to sleep was about as far as she could go.
Gene was a weak reed, too. But what could you do? He had to have his part to play, she owed him that much. And…there was no one else who could do what Gene had to do.
She was waiting on the verge of the forest when the four Titanides and three humans showed up. She greeted each of them by name. She noted the shocked surprise on Robin’s face, wished she had more time to talk to the little witch, who she loved dearly, but there was so much to do.
So she gave them their instruction. They had brought their weapons.
The rest was going to be up to them.
***
Conal sat astride Rocky and watched as the little plume of steam crawled around the rim of Pandemonium. He didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that Gaby said that when it reached a certain mark on the wall, they were to go.
He was surprised to discover that he was not afraid for himself. But he was absolutely terrified Robin would die.
They had their weapons. Each Titanide had a long sword and a rifle with interchangeable magazines. The humans carried handguns. They had practiced with both rifles and handguns, and found it was practically impossible to hit anything with either, even from the relatively steady moving platform of a Titanide’s back. But they were fractionally better with the smaller weapons. They also carried short swords, and hoped they didn’t have to use them, because it was hard to see what use they would be unless they were dismounted. To
be thrown from a Titanide generally meant the Titanide was badly hurt.
The puff of steam was at the proper mark. Conal felt his hand being squeezed tightly. It was Robin, and her hand was very cold. He leaned over and kissed her. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.
The Titanides moved out into the open and began their charge.
***
The body of Whistlestop had almost burned out before the remains began to stir.
Behind it, Universal was still burning madly. The waters of the moat were full of floating debris. The corpses of a hundred parboiled eight-meter Great White sharks floated belly-up all around the crumpled ruin of the blimp.
As with Nasu, it was a hand that appeared first. Then, slowly, struggling, Gaea pulled herself out of the black mess and stood, looking dazed, on the outer shore of the moat.
Cirocco sternly repressed an impulse to laugh. Once it started, it would never stop, it would quickly become hysteria. But Gaea…
She looked like some cartoon character in one of the oldest gags in the trade. Hapless cartoon animal is handed a round black bomb with a sizzling fuse, looks at it, does a double-take—eyes bug out and BLAM! Smoke clears to reveal character standing in exactly the same position, holding nothing, but completely black, hair standing on end, wisps of smoke curling away…character blinks twice—only the eyes are visible—and falls over.
Completely black but for the eyes. That was Gaea. But she didn’t fall over.
She began to writhe. It was awful to watch. She stretched this way and that, and her skin began to crack. She reached down to her belly, to her legs, her feet, and scrubbed herself vigorously with her hands. And the skin began to peel away.
It came off in one big chunk, like a child’s bunny-suit pajamas. Beneath was glistening white skin, blonde hair…a new Gaea, unhurt. She stood for a moment, having lost perhaps two feet in height, then began to walk toward Cirocco.
Twenty-two
“It’s time, Gene.”
“I know it’s time,” he said. “Tarnation, didn’t you tell me…”
He stopped his work and looked around. Gaby wasn’t there. He thought he had heard her, but he couldn’t be sure. He shrugged, and returned to the device in his lap.
He was sitting on a big crate labeled DYNAMITE: Product of Bellinzona. It sat, in turn, on the great green nerve nexus down in the dead heart of Oceanus. Stacked all around him were similar crates.
What he had in his lap was a timing device. He had thought he understood how to use it. Hook this here dingus to that there whatchamacallit over there, wind up the little hammenframis on the back of that doohickey….
Nothing. It wasn’t ticking or nothing.
He was supposed to hook it up and get the hell out of there. He didn’t plan to get out, so when Gaby gave him the go-on-ahead, he’d waited it out here what he figured was a goodly chunk of time, and then set to work. Now it didn’t look like it was gonna work no-how, on account he’d hooked it up ever whichway, and nothing was happening.
He sobbed his frustration.
It’d be nice to have him a nice hunk of fish right about now. It was a wonderment, it surely was, how much better the stinking things tasted if you charred them a bit over the fire. Now why hadn’t he thought of that?
He was about to get up and get him some fish, when he remembered how long it would take to get up there and back. Phooey! That’s why he’d waited so long before setting to work on this dingus anyway, figuring in the time it would have took him to of clumb up to the top of them stairs…
He was woolgathering again, and he knew it. He rearranged the parts of the detonator, wondering if he’d ever get it right.
And he kept thinking that he was forgetting something.
And it was the most important part.
***
The brakes on the frigging little train didn’t work.
Luther cursed it mightily, then, as the station came by, he leaped, and he rolled.
He got up shakily. There were little bits of Luther scattered here and there on the platform. Luckily, they weren’t important bits. An ear, a fragment of skull, part of a foot.
He didn’t have much time left, and he knew it.
Luther watched the little train puff away around the broad curve of the track. It would keep going forever, round and round the great wheel of Pandemonium, round and round the Great Gaea….
No it wouldn’t. The track was broken, because…thump…Gaea had fought the snake because…thump, thump…Cirocco was attacking! And Gaea had sent him here on an important mission!
His brain was thumping along pretty good by now, actually. A square wheel, if it rolls long enough, wears off some of the corners. He felt as alert as he’d been since the day he…died. What was left of his brow furrowed, then he shrugged it off and hurried down the stairs—
He was met by Gautama. Little fat-ass gold-painted pissant Gautama, yammering something in some godless language. Luther drew his cross—the mighty Sword of the Lord—and lopped off his head.
Which didn’t kill Gautama, of course, but when Luther kicked the head a hundred yards down the road it sure inconvenienced him some. Gautama blundered around, senseless, his hands held out in front of him. Luther didn’t give him another thought. He was humming, trying to mouth the words, though there wasn’t enough mouth left to form many of them.
“But now a champion comes to fight, Whom God Herself elected! No strength of ours can match Her might! We would be lost, rejected!”
Up on the walls, people were shooting their guns. He heard a cannon go off. And he marched up to the gate and threw it open. People were shouting at him. He couldn’t understand the words. He went to the drawbridge mechanism, located the proper lever to pull…
Thump.
I’m lowering the drawbridge, he told himself. Thump.
Why am I lowering the drawbridge?
Ah…why, to help Gaea, of course. To help Gaea to…
Get in? Thump thump thump.
Maybe this was some sort of trick. His hand moved away from the lever.
“This is not a trick, my darling Luther,” said a voice close to his ear.
He turned his head and saw her.
It was Gaea, it was his wife, his mother, all motherhood and womanhood and the virginmary god-help-me, with thorns wrapped around her heart and that saintly expression on her face (and it was a little brown woman) and the dazzling white robes and the halo—halo! Why, it was a searing, screaming light that burst from her, the burning light of goodness/pain/death—and millions of angels were hovering above her, blowing their trumpets (and he didn’t even know the little brown woman)…thump—trick? How could it be a trick?!
People were hacking at him with swords now. Absently, he saw one of his arms fall to the stone floor. But, O Lord, I have another to do Thy bidding.
He lunged at the lever, thrust it forward, and fell into the rattling clattering chewing mechanism as the tons of drawbridge fell forward and rended him limb from limb….
Arthur Lundquist’s first death had been horrible. His second was glorious.
***
Some photofauns had somehow managed to swim the moat. There were a dozen of them clustered around Cirocco as she stood her ground and watched Gaea striding confidently forward.
The giant Monroe-thing had its arms wide, as if to cut Cirocco off no matter which way she ran. She came on like a dreadful professional wrestler, her face contorted with hate.
She was five hundred meters away. Four hundred. Three hundred.
And she stopped, listening, as Luther died.
Where is the Child?
***
As they neared the end of the bridge, a cannon shell burst over their heads. Conal heard something rattle off his helmet, felt something sting his arm, and heard Robin cry out.
He saw she was holding her hand to her forehead, and there was blood under it. He started to jump—
“No!” Robin shouted. “I’m all right.”
Th
ere was no time, anyway. They were on the bridge now, the Titanides’ hooves pounding on the thick timbers. They charged toward the big gap. The drawbridge was up. We’d better turn back, Conal thought.
Then it fell, and not a moment too soon. With part of his mind Conal noticed that Rocky was bleeding from many wounds. Up on the wall, something was making odd little barking sounds. Smoke was drifting around them. He looked up and saw people pointing rifles at them. He hoped they couldn’t shoot any better than he could.
They entered the arched gate, passed quickly through it. Conal didn’t have time to fire at anything. The Titanide swords were at work, and the humans that fell beneath them were probably dead before they hit the ground. Still they came charging up. Conal began to shoot at anything that moved.
There had been no time to see who he was fighting, no sense of them as individuals. Finally, he started to notice they were dressed oddly. They wore long coats, some of them, or suits of white armor, or multi-colored green-gray-brown pants and helmets like his own.
A man came shrieking up to him, getting under Rocky’s sword thrust. He was carrying an impossibly long sword. How could he even lift it, much less swing it?
But swing it he did, and it hit Conal on the leg, and Conal started saying his prayers, certain his leg was off and it would be a few seconds before the shock hit him.
He looked down. Part of the sword was clutched in his hand. He saw broken wood. He saw silver paint. The paint came off on his hand as he threw it away.
It was too much for his confused mind to deal with.
My god, did they think this was a game?
Then he heard Valiha’s shout. She was far ahead of the rest, unencumbered, and she had found Chris.
“Turn around!” she screamed. “I’ve got them! Turn around!”
***
“Chicken!” Cirocco screamed.
Gaea paused.
“Gaea’s a stinking, gutless, yellow COWARD! Gaea is CHICKEN!!”
The naked, sweating giant turned slowly. She had been on her way to Fox, on her way to stop the theft of Adam. But…Cirocco was right here. Adam was miles away.