“Yes. If you get a scratch on this car I’ll have to kill you, though.”
They descended a long ramp and selected a floor at random. Most of it was empty and most of the cars and trucks that were there were covered in heavy layers of dust.
“Looks like most people don’t leave once they arrive,” said Nathan.
“Don’t park it near anyone else. Over there, next to that wall.”
Nathan pulled into the spot and Sam yanked out the knob for the cigar lighter and put it in his pocket. They got out and looked around. Sam had to admit that it didn’t seem like the parking structure had much foot traffic, but he couldn’t help wishing they hadn’t left the tarp behind in the clearing.
“Ok,” he said, shrugging on his coat. “We go in, we buy light bulbs, we leave. Right?”
“Right. I say we split up when we get in, it’ll be faster that way.”
They stepped into an ancient elevator which ground its way slowly upwards. Sam wasn’t sure that the splitting up plan was really very good, but all he really wanted to do was get back on the road and put as many miles between himself and California as he could, so he nodded.
The doors slid open.
If they had any remaining questions about why the outlands of the city were so huge and crowded, they were answered as soon as they entered the pristine confines of Century City itself. It was like another world. Or, more accurately, another time. A time of plenty. A time that the great-grandparents of the city’s occupants would have recognized. It wasn’t just that the roads were wide and clean and the sidewalks gleaming as if they’d only been laid the night before. Or even that they were flanked on all sides by prosperous-looking stores and businesses with real glass windows displaying brand new wares. It was that it all seemed normal and expected by the people that crowded the streets, their faces clean of dirt or dust and their clothes new and cut for style rather than function.
“How is this…?” Sam looked in the windows, dumbfounded. “How is this possible? I thought everything was gone. Where are they getting this…this stuff?”
“Mostly they make it themselves,” said Nathan. “Almost everything is synthetic. What they can’t make they buy from other cities and big-time traders.”
“But…I thought everything was gone. They told us. They said it was all—”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they? The key is scale. No city can grow too big. Every city must be close to self-sustaining.”
“All those people on the outside and in the Wilds. They have nothing! They’re starving!”
“I know,” Nathan sighed and shrugged. “It’s the way it is. The way it’s always been. The strong prey on the weak. It’s just a bit more obvious here.”
“But…”
“Look, try not to think about it. There’s nothing we can do. Let’s just get the light bulbs and go. Meet back here?”
Sam shook his head and looked around.
“It’s late. It’ll probably be dark. We’ll meet in there.”
He nodded towards a small bar on the other side of the street. There was a neon martini glass flickering above the door and a sign: The Entropy Inn. “I have a feeling the good citizens of Century City won’t like outlanders lingering on their streets after dark.”
“But we’re not—”
“Yes, we are. To them, anyway.” He pulled his pocket watch out and looked at the time. “One hour, okay?”
Nathan nodded and marched confidently away. Sam watched until he turned a corner, then set off in the opposite direction.
He had a feeling that light bulbs would not be as easy to find as Nathan had anticipated. No one had used them in the cities for years. Still, there were probably collectors—there are always plenty of people who prefer old technology. He turned down a side street and saw a small shop, its contents spilling over the sidewalk below a sign that read: ‘Antiques.’
He walked in, squeezed past stacks of chairs, tables, rolled-up carpets and assorted small nick-knacks he couldn’t identify, and made his way to the cramped plastic counter at the back where a bored-looking girl sat staring into space.
“Hello,” he said, flashing his best charming smile.
She just stared at him.
“Okay. Um…I was wondering. Do you sell light bulbs? You know, old fashioned incandescent—”
“Bayonet or screw?” said the girl.
“Excuse me?”
“Bayonet or screw. It’s the way they go into the fitting.”
“Really? Who knew they were so complicated, eh?”
Another smile.
The girl just stared.
“A box of each, then.”
“That’ll be sixty primos.”
“I have dollars. I assume that’s—”
“No. All transactions in Century City have to be conducted with CC primos. No old money. No barter.”
“Really? And that works, does it? Because I’d think that would drive a lot of business away.”
The girl shrugged slightly and popped her gum.
“Okay. Right. I’ll see you later. Do you know where there’s a currency exchange or a—”
“No.”
Sam stepped back out onto the street. The light was fading quickly and the gas streetlights were slowly firing up. He walked back to the corner and stopped. There was something new. Not a headache, but a kind of rasp. Inside his head, scratching, like an animal at a door. He shook his head, but the volume grew to a buzz and was joined by another, then another, and another. It was almost like whispering, as if a thousand people were telling secrets to a thousand more. He reached into his pocket and popped another green pill. A friend of his dad’s had made them. They’d traveled to Pendleton City and Sam had waited outside while his dad went in. It was some guy his dad had worked with at Hermes Industries Research, specializing in pharmaceuticals back then, but doing something else in Pendleton. Nearly all of his dad’s old colleagues were doing other things. At the time, Sam had thought that maybe Hermes wasn’t a nice place to work, to the extent that he thought about it at all. But when he looked back now, it seemed weird. They’d all left and scattered across the country, meeting only occasionally and in the dark. Sam knew what that meant—it meant they were scared.
The green pills had helped with his headaches, milder forms of which had started striking whenever they got too close to a city. He’d remembered them lasting longer, but perhaps that was because he’d been so much younger the last time he’d had to use them. About ten. The age of that kid there.
A mother and her son were waiting for a streetcar under a brightly lit Hermes Industries poster that showed a ridiculously perfect family having a picnic in a green field under the kind of bright sun no-one had seen for decades. Below them, in comforting blue print were the words: “You can always depend on Mutha!”
Typical, thought Sam. Makes no sense at all.
“What’s Mutha stand for?” asked the boy.
Sam couldn’t believe that the kid didn’t already know, but was flabbergasted to discover that his mother didn’t either.
“I don’t think it stands for anything,” she said, peering through the dusk for the tell-tale lights of the streetcar and glancing nervously at the strange boy in the big coat across the street.
“It stands for Molecular Universal Tertiary Hyperspatial Analogicon,” said Sam.
The mother nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Does it? Oh, well, there you go Ralphie. The nice gentleman knows all about it. Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Now come on, dear, the car’s late. Let’s walk a few stops.”
She hustled the boy away. Sam watched them go and thought that maybe he should take advantage of his time in the city and have a bath and get some new clothes. Or perhaps just clean the ones he had.
He looked up at the Hermes Industries poster. It was so weirdly outside of anyone’s experience any more, yet it seemed to awaken something deep within.
A longing
.
That’s what it was. A longing for something ordinary and beautiful that simply didn’t exist any more.
He was still staring at the poster when he heard the first shot. He spun around, trying to get a feel for the direction. There was another one…and another. They were a few blocks away. That was good—plenty of time to run in the opposite direction.
He turned to go and was almost immediately grabbed from behind and spun around by what seemed at first glance to be nothing more than an animated pile of rags.
“Help me!” it gasped.
Sam hesitated. The grip was strong but the voice was old and weak. He pulled himself free, the movement jerking a filthy hood off the creature’s head, revealing the time-etched face of an incredibly old man.
“Help me...”
The man stumbled and collapsed at Sam’s feet, dropping something that clattered into the road.
“Please…please…don’t let them get it…” His voice faded away to a whisper.
Sam knelt down and cradled the man’s head. There was blood seeping from at least three separate wounds in his chest. It didn’t look good.
“Can you—?”
“No. Listen!” The man reached up and grabbed one of Sam’s lapels, pulling him in.
“They can’t have it…promise me…”
The fetid breath of the old man made Sam recoil, but he noticed that although his clothes were rags now, a few shreds still shone with their original saffron dye. Could he be a monk?
The pounding of booted feet could be heard just around the corner.
“Come on!” urged Sam. “We have to get out of here!”
“No…it’s too late,” gasped the old man. “But I got it. You have to tell them that.”
“Tell who? Got what?”
“You have to take it back to Shanti Ghara. You must make it safe again.”
Sam stared at him. That name. He’d heard it before. A story. There was a story…
“Please! Promise! She cannot have it!”
“I…yes, I promise.”
A shot rang through the air and thwacked into the poster behind Sam’s head. The old man’s pursuers had rounded the corner.
“I can’t leave you!”
“I’m already dead. It’s there. Pick it up.”
Sam ran into the road and retrieved the thing that the old man had dropped. It was wrapped in dirty linen and seemed to be some kind of a box.
“Please, let me take you—”
Another shot rang out. This one was closer and ricocheted off the sidewalk. Sam looked down at the old man. He could carry him, but he’d have to drop the box. How important could a box be? The old man clawed at his coat again, drawing himself up. He peered into Sam’s eyes and then gasped.
“No!” he stammered. “It isn’t possible!”
“What?
“You’re one of them!”
“One of what? I’m not one of anything. What are you—”
The old monk let go and fell back onto the sidewalk.
“I’ve failed…”
“No, you haven’t!” Sam didn’t know why it was so important that this doomed stranger believe him, but it was. “I’ll return it. I promise.”
The old man lay on the ground, his mouth forming words without sound. Sam leaned down.
“All for nothing,” whispered the monk, blood gurgling from his mouth.
“No,” said Sam, gently. “I promise, I’ll—”
“Aberration! Abomination!” He barely had enough breath in his lungs now, but there was no mistaking the venom in his voice. A wizened hand reached up and touched the box, but the old eyes were fixed on Sam’s face.
“The end,” said the monk. “The end of all.”
Sam watched as the eyes became blind and one final breath rattled in the old man’s throat. Another bullet screamed past.
There was no time to waste. He jumped to his feet, tucked the box under his arm and ran, ducking into the first alley he came to, then down another, through a dark pedestrian tunnel and finally out into a busy plaza, crowded with sidewalk cafes and bars. He’d lost them.
He stopped near a streetlight and looked at the box.
It was intricately carved and decorated with strange metals and minerals, each entwining with the other like a casket of snakes. It was beautiful, yet there was something frightening about it. Which was stupid—it was just a box.
Though, of course, it wasn’t.
Because he’d seen it before.
In a drawing. A drawing of a strange box. His mother had shown it to him. Just in case. That’s what she’d said: just in case. It was a long time ago, when he was very young and he hadn’t understood much. Only that there was something bad about this box. That it was a box that no one could have.
It was supposed to be hidden where no one would ever find it. He ran his hand over the cold surface. It wasn’t a weapon. It wasn’t a bomb. It was just a box. Yet people had died for it before and would probably do so again.
It was the Paradigm Device.
Chapter 5
“YOU’RE LATE.”
Nathan was leaning against the wall outside the Entropy Inn. He looked like he’d been there for a while and he didn’t seem pleased about it. He also looked really tired.
“Why aren’t you inside?”
“Because nowhere in this poxy city takes real money, that’s why! I mean, I have been everywhere and they don’t even have places where you can exchange it—what is the point of that?”
“Control, I guess.”
“Control of what? How are people expected to do business if you won’t let them take any money? All anyone wants is these stupid Century City Primos, whatever the heck they are. Have you seen them, by the way? They’re yellow and blue. Yellow and blue! What kind of color is that for money?”
“I think they want you to use credit.”
“What? But I don’t have any—”
“I imagine they’ll make it very easy.”
Nathan rolled his eyes. “Oh, I get it. Then you’re on their radar for life. No thanks. Let’s get out of here.”
Sam nodded and they strolled back to the parking lot.
“It’s weird, though, isn’t it?” said Nathan, looking up at the glass-clad skyscrapers. “Like pictures in an old book.”
“Yeah. But not…it doesn’t seem right somehow. Like nothing here is real.”
“No. Y’know, I think we should—”
He didn’t get any further. They both just stood there—stunned.
The elevator doors, the ones that should have taken them back to their car, were barred by a set of gleaming steel gates. Sam’s heart sank.
“What…they can’t do this! That’s our car!” Nathan looked around frantically for someone to complain to. “This is…Wait, maybe there’s another way in. Stairs or something.”
“No. Look.”
Sam had noticed a large sign above the elevator doors, in exactly the position no one leaving the parking lot would ever see.
WELCOME TO CENTURY CITY
NOTICE
Parking facility is closed between
6:30 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. daily
Except for approved holidays
Have a Nice Day
“What!?” Nathan stared at the sign in disbelief. “I mean, setting aside the fact that they put ‘Welcome to Century City’ on a sign that you’ll only see when you’re leaving, how can they stop us from getting our car? It’s our car. They were the ones who insisted we park it in their poxy garage.”
“Yes, well, now we know why.”
Nathan sighed. “So we’ll spend more money.”
“Yeah.”
“Which we don’t have.”
“Maybe we could break in,” suggested Sam. “That door doesn’t look any too sturdy. Kinda pretty, but not that strong.”
“Yeah, uh, I’d just like to address the tour’s attention to the remarkable detail on the decorative eaves of the lovely bar across the street.”
“What?”
Sam glanced back at the Entropy Inn. It was a sort of faux Victorian structure, trying to look old but probably not predating the skyscrapers. Up near the gutters was a frieze of interlocking geometric shapes…and a small bullet-shaped object.
“Oh. Cameras.”
“There’s always someone watching in places like this.”
Sam nodded, then stared at the camera more closely.
“Hang on…” He crossed the street and stood underneath it, then turned back, grinning. “And someone’s watching the watchers. Look.”
Nathan peered up into the shadows where a much smaller device had been carefully patched into the larger one. As they watched, it swung around and stared directly at them.
“Whoa!” said Nathan, backing away.
“Yeah,” Sam turned his back on the cameras. “Come on, let’s raise some money so we can get a bed for the night.”
“What? How are we gonna raise money with no money to start with? And what’s that thing under your arm? Can we sell it?”
“Almost certainly, but we’re not going to. We need to find a game.”
“What kind of game?”
“Any game. Just so long as people bet on it. Come on.”
He strode into the bar, followed by a very nervous Nathan. The place was almost dark inside, with a miasma of smoke that stung the eyes and made it even more difficult to see. Sam waited by the door until he could make out the room better. If there was one thing he’d learned in his travels, it was never to march into a darkened room unless you knew exactly what was in it.
The Entropy Inn was small and not unlike most of the bars and cafes in the Wilds. Although, judging by the glittering rows of bottles behind the bar, it was much better stocked. The bar itself had been made to look like a single long piece of gleaming mahogany. But as there hadn’t been any trees of any size for nearly forty years, it was clearly synthetic. The barman was grey and hunched but not as old as he looked, and Sam noticed that, while he seemed to be deep in conversation, he was actually watching the newcomers with a practiced gimlet eye.
The clack-clackity-clack of dominoes drew Sam’s attention away from the bar and to a table near the door. Two old men were playing and they seemed to be wagering on the result, but the amount involved was too small to be of help. There was a game of chess on the far side with a little knot of observers. Chess was good—he could always win at that, but again the stakes were clearly going to be too small. Then he saw it. In the darkness near the back, lit by an ancient overhead lamp: six men and two women playing poker. They were using one of those old randomizer devices to deal—it printed each card and shot it across the table to the players. At the end of the hand the cards were re-inserted into the machine, which wiped them clean and started again. They’d been popular in the Wilds a few years back, but most of them had eventually broken down and everyone had returned to the old-fashioned decks, which was a shame because Sam had discovered that he could predict every card with almost one hundred percent accuracy. He had no idea how or why, but had assumed the machines must make some kind of almost imperceptible noise when they produced the cards. Whatever it was, he couldn’t believe his luck in finding one in Century City. Not to mention that the stack of money in the middle of the table was exactly what he had in mind…and there was an empty chair.
Paradigm Page 5