The Crying Machine

by Greg Chivers

  ‘Oh, you won’t be disappointed.’

  He grins, satisfied. The nouveau riche are never hard to please – it’s just a matter of keeping abreast of whatever winds of fashion are blowing through the western deserts. Cathedral gargoyles are the latest must-have for the home, apparently – the more famous the ruin they come from, the better, but provenance is so tricky to prove with Europe in the state it’s in.

  A heavy breath announces the presence of someone behind me. I turn to see the bald and terminally dull countenance of Levin, the senior curator who should have been here an hour ago. His face is red – I would say ‘with excitement’ but Levin doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Probably just scared of what I’ll do to him for being late. I flash him a smile that offers no reassurance and graciously step back to let him take over the conversation.

  ‘Ah, thank you, minister. Ummm … The triptych is the work of a court painter in the Umayyad Caliphate. It dates from a time before the … ummm … modern proscription on depictions of the Prophet.’

  As I make my excuses and walk away, the delegates’ dark eyes still glitter with their cultivated outrage. This is what curators are paid to deal with. Maintaining business relationships is a necessity, but I can ill afford distractions at a time like this. In less than six weeks, all twelve of the city’s ministers, including me, will have to submit to the verdict of the polls and I don’t want any doubt about the outcome.

  Unfortunately, certainty costs money. The hacking collectives charge an arm and a leg for something as high profile as compromising voting machines. I’m going to have to get my hands dirty. Well, dirtier anyway. Levi Peres and my Russian colleague have, between them, presented me with a logistical problem. I have to deliver the goods, and whatever strictures I seek to impose, my charming demi-human clients will want to feel they have secure possession of the Antikythera device before they’ll pay. But the Sino-Soviet interest in the artefact means I cannot allow it to leave the jurisdiction. It’s all rather messy, but it is merely a matter of having cake and eating it. A little deception should suffice.

  The itch of uncertainty gnaws at me during the short walk from the museum floor to my office. Up until this point, a certain detachment from my merchandise has served me well, but I am starting to regret my lack of curiosity about this Antikythera thing. In isolation, the Machine Cult’s interest I could understand; it is entirely in character for them to ascribe a bizarre and incomprehensible significance to some bauble, and to become fixated upon its acquisition. However, the palpable interest of my Russian counterpart puts an entirely different perspective on the matter. Despite his pretensions as an aesthete, Vasily is a practical man. If he or his masters want it, the Antikythera Mechanism must be something more than a cultural and historical curiosity.

  As I drift through the foyer of my office, Sybil raises an arm in my path holding a cup of coffee just hot enough to become uncomfortable in my grip by the time I reach my desk. The punched green leather of my swivel chair offers little comfort. I am trapped in a ridiculous irony. Even with the irritant that was Boutros gone, I share this building with people who are supposedly the world’s foremost authorities on the mysterious object, but asking any questions risks drawing attention to the theft. I am not ready for that particular cat to get out of the bag. I key the switch on the left side of my desk. ‘Sybil, get me a museum catalogue and a guidebook please.’

  ‘Uhh … yes, sir.’ Her voice only betrays surprise for a moment. She bustles in silently before I’ve finished my coffee and deposits the documents in front of me without meeting my eyes. I wonder what, if anything, could unsettle Sybil’s marvellous gift of detachment. Those are musings for another day, one less crowded with pressing questions. A quiet fart escapes me as I open the folders, which she dutifully ignores.

  The guides offer little. The Mechanism was smuggled out of Athens in a refugee ship from Piraeus a few months before windborne fallout from the battle of Bucharest rendered the city uninhabitable. The records that were presumably supposed to come with it were lost when the ship hit a mine in the harbour mouth at Tyre. The device’s subsequent recovery intact from the seabed was a miracle to match its original discovery, when sponge divers stumbled across a shipwreck containing the thing. Now, almost everything we know about it is guesswork and fragments from paper records that survived the data wars.

  The outer coating that looks like rock is just what happens when you leave bronze in seawater and dirt for two thousand years. When they found it, it was one big, dirty lump; then they broke it into a dozen pieces, changed their minds and stuck it all back together. X-rays of the thing show the outline of thirty intermeshing bronze gears beneath the rock. Apparently, they represent a level of engineering expertise that mankind would not attain until the Renaissance. If you were to fit them together correctly, they would function as an astrolabe that perfectly predicts solar and lunar eclipses, as long as you’re standing somewhere between Rhodes and Pergamon. A curiosity, but nothing here tells me why they want it.

  I jab the comms button on my desk again. ‘Sybil, what kind of trace did we get on my last call to Peres?’

  Silence while she summons data. Her voice cuts it. ‘Nothing, sir. He didn’t pick up – no connection to trace.’

  ‘What about his comm-plant? Registered?’

  ‘Operation carried out as normal, post puberty at the Beth Nevi’im clinic. The implant is a standard mid-range Shimezu, but some time in the last six years he’s had the usual criminal hack done on it, and it shows up with various IDs – mostly they belong to people he won’t know.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s something we’ll have to crack down on.’

  ‘You’d have to arrest half the city, sir.’

  ‘Good point. Perhaps I should make it an election pledge. That sort of thing always sells. Anyway, what you’re telling me is that despite our extensive and expensive surveillance network, we have no idea of where he is?’

  ‘Only circumstantial details, sir. The last signal we had from him was highly attenuated. Possibly that means he’s out of range of the city’s relay masts. There’re a few CCTV snatches of him walking towards the Lion Gate with a female companion. We can only surmise he’s somewhere east of the city.’

  ‘East of the city? That’s it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Fucking Peres. I can’t let this drag out. Find a way to get to him.’

  25.

  Levi

  Clem’s body is a narrow ghost underneath a white sheet. She touched the Antikythera thing once after she spoke, then she collapsed, no more talking in that creepy voice. Lucky she was already on the bed. She’s been sleeping for twelve hours, just like she did after the heist. You can barely see her breathe; it’s like someone switched her off. Hilda sits on the floor next to me in a clearing between piles of books, watching Clem for most of the time, turning every so often to check I’m not stealing anything. We haven’t really talked. A smile flickers over her face.

  ‘Mr Peres …’

  ‘Levi. Please. Levi. Only people who want money call me Mr Peres.’

  ‘OK, Levi. You don’t trust me … any of us. From your perspective, I can see why that would be, but you can surely see we want what’s best for Clementine? She would want you to trust us.’

  ‘She’s a kid, what does she know?’

  ‘Enough to put her faith in you, apparently.’

  The words push a slim blade of guilt into my chest. I see her as she was that day, a silhouette standing in the door to Yusuf’s bar. For a second, I thought I was being busted for something. The way she asked for me sounded like a cop. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘No, no you couldn’t. My intention was not to make you feel guilty, merely to illustrate that Clementine’s judgement of people is perhaps more keen than her naivety elsewhere might suggest.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. You’ve got to admit some of the shit you guys do is pretty weird.’

  She gives me a smile that looks different to
the bland expression she’s been wearing since we got here. It makes her look younger, but she’s got one of those faces – she probably looked forty when she was sixteen.

  ‘What is it about us you find so strange?’ She leans real close to me and her face is all earnest and kind like a fairy godmother in a storybook and suddenly I can’t take it.

  ‘I don’t know what the angle is, but you’ve got something going on here.’

  Then it comes again – that patient smile that sets my teeth on edge. ‘To people who lack it, faith always seems unreasonable. Stay with us, help us to care for Clementine.’

  Not buying it, no way. ‘I saw her like this before. She just gets tired when she does her crazy shit. Bake her a cake for when she wakes up.’

  The nun shakes her head. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this. Whatever state she’s in, it’s not a normal sleep.’

  ‘So? What’s that supposed to mean to me? I’m not a doctor. I can’t fix anything. Look, maybe you really are a good person, maybe all this is for real, but if I stay here, I can’t do anything except look at her. I’ve got one thing I can do that’s good for me, and for Clementine – which is make some money.’

  ‘Don’t …’ Her face goes all sad, like I’m taking something away from her.

  ‘What? You going to say something to change my mind?’

  She looks down at her knees, fingers of her left hand picking at a loose thread in the rough weave of her robe. ‘No.’

  ‘I guess I’ll see you around then.’

  Hilda becomes a blurred outline of a kneeling figure as the smoked-glass door closes behind me. She’s praying, which I guess makes a kind of sense. It’s what people do when they don’t know.

  Vulture-lady is coming the other way when I get to the front door of the chapel. I stop in the doorway, braced for another confrontation, but she just smiles bright and clear, like an actress, but scary, one that could kick your ass.

  ‘Leaving us already, Mr Peres?’

  ‘Levi. Yeah, I got some business to finish up.’

  The bright smile stays on her face but the eyes become cold. She points to the canvas bag on my shoulder, which I swear feels heavier than it did on the way here. ‘Would that business be selling the priceless antiquity you stole from a museum – something that belongs to all of humanity?’

  ‘That business would be none of yours. Go talk to God or something.’

  She stands there, staring, and for a second I swear I see a flicker of something moving in her eyes – something yellow. Then it’s gone and she’s smiling again, like the spooky death stare never happened. ‘Why would I try to stop you, Levi? Like you said, it’s none of my business. If you want to go, go.’ Then a thought hits her, and she cocks her head to the side. ‘If you can bring yourself to hang here for a minute while I get a coat, I could drive you to the city.’

  She hovers close, sharing the doorway’s shade with me until I nod. The idea of walking back up that dust track all the way through the weird farm is not attractive, and it would be an hour before I got anywhere with even a chance of hitching a lift. I’m still figuring out where I’m going to go when she reappears, looking exactly the same except for a shiny blue coat over the robes, which looks more nightclub singer than nun. She sees me staring and smiles.

  ‘We’re not born into holy orders, Levi. We all had lives before we chose this path and, contrary to what you might think, we’re not swimming in money to buy new stuff.’

  She leads us outside, where there’s a van waiting for us. The sides are covered with cartoon vegetables. If I have any street-cred left, it’s gone as soon as someone sees me in this thing.

  ‘Sorry, the limo’s in the shop.’ She climbs into the driver’s seat, quick and smooth like a dancer, and waits for me to settle the bag. Her sleeves slide back as she grips the wheel, exposing red blotched skin on her wrists, which is weird, because her hands are smooth. You get used to seeing foreigners with radiation burns in Jerusalem, but I don’t know what could mark someone like that. For a second I think she’s going to cover up, but we both know I saw what I saw. She doesn’t say anything, just hits the accelerator. The motor whines and gravel beneath the wheels crackles as we pull away. The morning light bounces hard off the rows of polytunnels, forcing my eyes half shut. When we get to the open ground with the big green circles, she talks without looking away from the narrow track ahead.

  ‘You know, I used to be a little like you once. I found out the hard way that sooner or later, you run into trouble you can’t handle on your own. Eventually, you have to trust someone. I was lucky to end up here.’

  ‘You were like me? I guess Clem told you everything about me, huh?’

  ‘Of course not, she only said a couple of things.’

  ‘Well, then I can’t see how you would know what you were talking about.’

  The corners of her mouth curl into a frown. ‘You know, you don’t have to make things so hard for yourself, Levi.’

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe I like it hard. Maybe that’s who I am. I didn’t ask for your help. I can get out and walk.’

  For a moment the van slows, then she shakes her head and it picks up speed. ‘I made you an offer of help. It didn’t come with any strings. I’ll stay quiet if it makes you comfortable.’

  The motor whine intensifies as we climb out of the valley, switchbacking up to the main road. We crest the hill and drift past four empty-looking whitewashed houses with tiny windows. Quiet suddenly fills the cab as the tyres bump off the dirt track onto tarmac, and the road stretches out in front of us. In the distance, Jerusalem spreads like a stain on the horizon.

  We’re six miles outside the city when the signal to my comm-plant comes back to life. Silas must have been waiting, because the call indicator lights up in the corner of my vision the moment we’re in range. I watch the stylized bugle flash for a few seconds before I cut the connection. Let him wait some more.

  I give it a couple of minutes before calling back. He’s on the line straight away.

  ‘Where are you, Peres?’ He’s angry, and not trying to hide it.

  ‘Yeah, right, Silas.’

  ‘You’re late, and you’ve already missed one handover.’

  ‘I guess I missed the ticker-tape parade, then. Is there still cake?’

  ‘Shut up, Peres. I can make sure this ends very badly for you.’

  ‘With all due respect, fuck you, Mr Mizrachi, sir. Who do you think you’re dealing with? If you could just take this thing off me, I’d already be in a gutter outside the Jaffa Gate. Maybe I am small-time, but I got a keen sense of self-preservation. Let me tell you something – I know how much this Antikythera thing is worth now, and the price just went up.’

  The sound of fingers tapping a rhythm on a hard surface breaks the silence on the line. Silas’s voice becomes calmer. ‘All right, Levi. You want more money; I need you to do more of the work. You’ll have to execute delivery direct to the buyer – make up for some of the time you’ve wasted.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I don’t see that you’ve many options, dear boy. We’re stuck with each other. Unless you’ve got another buyer for priceless antiquities lined up? I’ll admit I’ve underestimated you, but if you’ve got those kind of connections I’ll be very surprised.’

  Fuck it, he’s right. ‘OK, where?’

  ‘The Aedis Machinarum. Be there an hour after dusk.’

  One of the first things I learned when I started dealing on the street was keep your mouth shut, always let the other guy talk first, you might learn something. Choosing the Machine Cult shrine for the handover raises two possibilities – one: those crazies are the buyers, which would be fucked up, but possible. The other is that it’s just somewhere convenient for Silas to bury me.

  ‘Sure. Tell you what, why don’t I save us both some time and put the bullet in my own head?’

  His voice is smooth. ‘Very well, I can see why you’d feel the need to protect yourself. Where would work for you?’
/>   ‘The old Gethsemane bunkers.’

  ‘I never had you figured for symbolism, Levi.’

  ‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Silas. It’s convenient, and it’s private. What else do you want?’

  ‘I’ll have to check that’s acceptable to my client. I’ll message you.’

  He’s sold. He doesn’t care as long as I’m back inside the city. He figures that once he gets me within his info-web he can work out the details later. He thinks nothing I can do is going to make life difficult for him. We’ll see.

  Vulture-lady drops me at the end of Ararat Street, far enough away from Leo’s restaurant that she won’t be able to see where I’m going. She looks like she wants to say something, but we tried that. Instead she stares at the outline of the box in my bag as I drag it from under my legs and get out. I take a step. Fuck it, I should just walk away but I can’t. I owe her.

  ‘Thanks for the ride.’

  ‘No problem.’ She smiles like it’s nothing, but she knows.

  ‘Listen, I didn’t mean to give you a hard time back there.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s OK then. Bye.’

  ‘Bye, Levi. Try not to get killed.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Maybe you can pray for me or something.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  The van’s wheels spit dust at my legs as she pulls away.

  The old man’s standing outside in the street, still smoking his damn cigarillo. He clocks me straight away, does a little double take, but then he’s all smiles. ‘As I live and breathe, Levi Peres! Didn’t I tell you we were all good for knick-knacks?’

  I give him a little grin that probably doesn’t hide the fact I am practically shitting myself with fear. ‘Wasn’t funny the first time, Leo. I need to talk to Shant.’

  His eyes narrow and he shakes his head. ‘I got nothing against you, kid. You were only doing what you had to do, and maybe Shant knows that, but he don’t feel that way right now. I’m going to do you a favour and recommend you get the fuck out of here.’