Again and again the cyborg pounded on the metal panel, the others joining him, and finally, it opened. They almost fell through in their haste to get out of the tunnel, and found themselves in a large, empty room, facing a curious individual.
As the door closed behind them, shutting off most of the high-pitched whine of the snake and the thunder of its pummeling the doorway, they slowly rose to their feet. Their rescuer was a short, tubby individual with a broad, fat face, bald pate, and eyes that gleamed metallically, like Guafe's.
Another mechanical man, Clive thought.
The strange being spoke to them, but the words made no sense.
"I'm sorry, we don't understand," Clive said.
"You are Englishmen?" he said then, in perfect Queen's English.
Clive nodded.
"Then you will be the assassins we were told to expect." The broad face grinned. "The Lords of Thunder will feed well on you tonight."
He pulled an instrument from his bell and aimed it at them, thumbing a lever. A numbness settled over the party and. while they could still see and hear, they could no longer move a muscle.
Twenty-six
You've screwed up bad in your time, Annie B., Annabelle told herself as she let go, but this probably tops them all.
Letting go.
To fall down the shaft, like Alice down the rabbit hole. Except this wasn't a dream from which she was going to wake, as Alice eventually had.
All her muscles clenched into tight knots in anticipation of the coming plummet, but while she descended, floating in the thick, golden air, there was no sense of falling. The descent was as calm as riding an escalator from one floor to the next, as comforting as lying on a warm waterbed, the mattress moving gently underneath.
The sparks that specked the honey glow strobed in her eyes. Each flash burned through her retinas to carry its fire into the recesses of her mind. A Catherine Wheel of memories, sparked, seen, then gone to make room for still more. Each one, here and gone, all in an instant.
Good memories.
The kind smile of a stranger peering down at her as her mother pushed her pram down a crowded city street.
Her first kiss, courtesy of freckled Bob Hughes, in the back of the rubble-strewn lot across from the grade school.
Her second Les Paul—to replace the one stolen as she was bringing it home from the store—that Des helped her strip and paint a canary yellow.
Holding Amanda for the first time, the red, squalling face turned up to hers, features calming as she soothed her.
Hearing about "Gotcha in my Heart," the band's third single, entering Billboard's Top One Hundred—thirty-four with a bullet.
Walking a rain-slick London street with Chrissie Nunn and Tripper on their way to the sound check of the first gig of their first European headlining tour.
Lots of first times.
First times were best. Those initial moments that you never forgot.
Good memories.
When her feet touched ground and the sparks lost their hold on her mind, the memories fading, she felt a sense of abrupt loss that knifed straight to her heart.
Not yet, she wanted to tell them. Don't go yet....
Her knees started to buckle, a sharp pain rising from her hurt leg, and then she was blinking in the golden glare, one hand pressed against the smooth wall of the shaft for balance. She turned in a slow circle and found the cutaway door that led to—
Where?
More dangers, more pain? She didn't want anything more to do with the Dungeon. She just wanted to float in the golden shaft, remembering the good things of her life. Times past and gone forever now. Better times than what was going to lie waiting for her through that door, of that she was sure. The shaft delivered what the chasm had only promised.
She looked up, but there was no retreat. No ladder rungs leading up into the rich honey glow. No handholds. No way up.
But there were voices. It took her a long moment to focus on them enough to make out what they were saying.
"Annabelle. Annabelle! Can you hear me?"
Slowly, she shook off her reverie. That was Sidi. At least there was something good about her present situation. Sidi and Shriek. Good friends. Maybe even Tomàs as well, seeing how he was turning over a new leaf.
"Annabelle!"
"I hear you." she called back.
"Where are you? Are you all right?"
All right? When she'd just been reminded of all that
she'd lost?
"Yeah." she called back. "I guess I'm okay."
Because life just went on. didn't it? Made no difference if you wanted to slow the ride down, or get off, the old Ferris wheel just kept on spinning. Up and down. You have a few laughs, some good times, and then you had to go through the times that weren't so good.
Like now.
"It's a real smooth ride." she told her companions. "So c'mon down."
She moved out of the shaft, through the portal, regrets and loss clinging to her like cobwebs.
You never used to be this moody, Annie B., she told herself as she took in their new surroundings.
The place had the feel of a waiting room in a train station or bus depot about it. Nothing was permanent here, everything's just passing through. On the far side of the dimly lit chamber, there was a door set in the wall.
Level six, Annabelle thought humorlessly. Another stopover that we just don't need. Maybe we should've grabbed an express.
Hearing a scuffling sound behind her, she turned to find Tomàs standing in the golden glow, sparks flickering around his dark head. The Portuguese's eyes were shiny with unshed tears.
"You okay?" she asked.
It took Tomàs a moment to focus on her, then he nodded slowly and joined her. He said nothing of what he'd experienced in the shaft, but his losses were written as plainly in his features and stance as Annabelle's own had been.
Well, what could you say? Annabelle thought.
It was the same for the others. One following the other. Shriek and Sidi stepped through the portal and crossed to where Annabelle and Tomàs were standing in the broad, empty room, waiting for them.
"Some trip, huh?" Annabelle said after a few moments.
Regrets swam in Sidi's eyes. "In some ways," he said, "that was the worst thing I've experienced in this place."
"Yeah. I know what you mean. We didn't need to be reminded."
She turned to Shriek. The alien's multiple, many-faceted eyes didn't show sorrow in the same way a human's would, but Annabelle knew Shriek had experienced the same kinds of losses that they all had.
"It was hard," Annabelle said to the arachnid, "to have the past, just for a moment, then lose it again."
Shriek nodded. Very hard, she agreed.
Her voice, echoing in Annabelle's head, was oddly subdued.
They stood in a quiet group, coming to terms with what they'd experienced in the shaft. Then, finally, Annabelle stirred.
"Guess we should check out what's behind Door Number One." she said, glancing at her companions. "Or do we trade it for what's behind the curtain?"
"Curtain?" Tomàs asked, looking around the empty room.
Annabelle shook her head. "Don't pay any attention to me."
She led the way to the door and tried the handle. Locked.
Perfect, she thought.
Shall we break in? Shriek asked her.
"Let's try the polite approach first," Annabelle replied.
She raised her hand and knocked sharply on the door. Waiting a few heartbeats, she knocked again. When there was still no response after her third knock, she turned to Shriek and was about to tell her to do her stuff, when she heard the lock being disengaged. She faced the door again as it slowly opened.
A scaled-down model of Chang Guafe stood in the doorway.
Well, he wasn't exactly like Guafe, Annabelle decided, but he was close enough. He was the size of a twelve-year-old, but obviously much older; male, slender, half his body parts made of gleami
ng metal, both eyes implants. His head was shaved, or he was naturally bald—it was hard to tell which. He wore red trousers and a green shirt. His feet were bare. If his cars had been pointed, she might have put him down as one of Santa's elves undergoing chemotherapy.
When he spoke, his voice had the same hollow ring as Guafe s. and she couldn't understand a word he said.
"Say what?" she asked.
She could almost hear the circuitry humming in his head as he tested her words and began to match them up with what he had stored in his memory.
"You speak English?" he asked finally.
"You bet. What's your name?"
"Binro."
"Okay. I'm Annabelle." One by one she introduced the rest of her company. "Is this the sixth level?"
Binro nodded. "Welcome to the Holy City of Tawn, pilgrims."
"Pilgrims?"
"Surely you have come to view the Oracle of the Lords of Thunder?"
Annabelle blinked, then quickly smiled. "Surely." she said. "What else?"
"Are you Haves or Havenots?"
"Ah...."
Annabelle shot a glance at Sidi and the others, but they were having as much problem following the conversation as she was.
Wonderful.
C'mon, guys, she wanted to say to them. Time for somebody else to lend a hand.
But they made it obvious that she was in command.
Haves or Havenots. It sounded like a trick question. What if they came up with the wrong answer?
"Havenots," she said, deciding that they had less than they should.
Binro beamed. "Then be thrice welcomed, pilgrims."
"We're a little... ah... vague on protocol," Annabelle said. "What's the deal with this oracle? Can we ask it anything we like?"
"That depends on whether or not your names are chosen in the drawing," Binro replied. "But, you're in luck. There is a lottery tonight. The Lords be willing, you might win a chance to speak to them through the Voice of Their Light."
This was getting too weird again. Annabelle thought. Drawings. Lotteries. What the hell was he talking about?
"Ah... what do we do until then?" she asked. "You know, until the lottery's happening?"
"There are always rooms kept in readiness for Havenot pilgrims." Binro assured her. "Come. Follow me."
He ushered them through the door, then carefully locked it behind them. Pocketing the key, he led them down a long hall and up a stairwell. Four stories later, they stepped into another corridor. This one had doors opening from it, all along its length.
It's like a hotel. Annabelle thought. She wondered what sort of payment they'd be expecting.
"Would you like separate rooms?" Binro asked.
Annabelle's first inclination was to go for that, but then she decided that they'd be better off staying together as a group.
"Maybe not," she said. "We're all strangers here and, you know, we'd like to stick together."
"As you wish."
He look them down to the middle of the hallway and opened a door into a large, carpeted room. Bright sunlight came through the windows, making them all blink. There were two double beds, a dresser, mirror, couch, and some easy chairs by the window, and two other doors leading off on one side of the room.
Closet and washroom. Annabelle decided. God, the place was like a Holiday Inn. She wondered if they had a shower.
"Will this be suitable?" Binro asked.
"Oh, yeah. It's great."
"There are clean garments in the closet." He pursed his lips for a moment, taking in Shriek's four arms. "I will have a custom-fitted robe prepared for you, Miss Shriek, which will be delivered in a half-hour."
That will not be necessary, Being Binro, the arachnid said.
Binro chittered in response—sneaking in Shriek's native language. Annabelle realized.
Right. The Holy City of Tawn. With an Oracle, expecting pilgrims. All languages accepted here. Stay in our beautiful downtown Hilton while you wait for the results of the lottery.
"Please make yourself at home." Binro added. Then he was gone.
Annabelle slowly closed the door behind him.
"Anybody know what's going on?" she asked.
Sidi and Tomàs shook their heads. Shriek, who had crossed the room to look out the window, called out suddenly, indicating something she saw outside. The others hurried over.
Look, the arachnid said, pointing to a figure that stood on a street corner below.
It took Annabelle a moment to focus on the figure. First, she took in the vast sweep of buildings and streets—it was like being in downtown New York. Tall, gleaming buildings rose high all around them. There was traffic on the streets, both pedestrian and vehicles, though the latter weren't quite right. At least, not for the cities Annabelle was familiar with. They were all either public transports, like old tram cars, or small one-or two-person scooters and what looked like golf carts.
"Jesus," she murmured.
Shriek tugged on her arm, still pointing. Annabelle let her gaze pan down to the figure that had caught the alien s attention.
"Clive!" she cried.
But Sidi shook his head. "No. That's Neville Folliot."
Annabelle started to turn for the door. "We've gotta grab him before he takes off again."
"Too late." Sidi told her. "He's gone now—lost in the crowd. We'll never find him."
"But he's here...."
And Clive wasn't. Jesus. Were they going to spend the rest of their lives careening around this place like pinballs, just catching glimpses of each other, never getting close again? The thought of it depressed her.
"I'm gonna see if they really do have a shower." she said.
Later, refreshed from long showers and the meal that Binro had brought them, they sat around their room, just taking it easy. Except for Shriek, they had all put on the robes that they had found in the closet.
We look like a bunch of acolytes from some weird monastery. Annabelle thought as she sprawled on one of the beds, hands behind her head. God, it felt good to be clean again.
The others had wanted to go exploring, but she refused to budge until her old clothes, which she'd washed when she took her shower, were dry enough to wear. No way she was gonna go running around looking like some Hare Krishna. She had a rep to think of.
In the end they all stayed; none of them wanting to separate. Shriek and Sidi sat by the window, fascinated by the endless parade of people and vehicles below. Tomàs was asleep on the other bed. Bored, Annabelle opened the drawer of the night table beside her bed.
She was used to hotel rooms—and. weird though this one was in terms of where it was, it still wasn't all that different from a hundred others she'd stayed in while on tour. She wasn't sure what she was expecting to find in the drawer. Not a Bible. Not here. Though maybe the Tawnian version of one?
Her fingers closed on a book and she drew it out. When she looked at what it was. a cold chill traveled up her spine.
"Oh, shit."
Sidi turned from the window. "What is it, Annabelle?"
Numbly. Annabelle held up her prize. It was Neville Folliot's journal.
Twenty-Seven
Clive had never felt so helpless as he did at that moment. Whatever the small box that their captor held was, it had somehow managed to freeze all their muscles, locking them into light knots so that not one of them could move—not even Guafe, who was composed of at least a third mechanical parts. They couldn't even twitch.
Whistling to himself, their captor unclipped another small box from his belt and spoke into it. Whatever he said was totally incomprehensible.
"Won't be long now," he told them, switching to English. "We'll soon have you transported to a nice little holding cell where I'll free you from your state of stasis."
Why? Clive wanted to ask him. What was all this about?
"You didn't truly believe that you could actually succeed in assassinating the Lords of Thunder, now, did you?" their captor asked, as though reading Clive's
mind.
There it was again. Clive thought. The mechanical man thought they were assassins. But all they knew of the Lords of Thunder was their name, nothing more. All they wanted to do was find his brother and leave the Dungeon. If he could only find some way to talk to the man.
"You're not the first to try, of course." their captor continued. "Nor will you be the last, I presume. But no one ever has, or will succeed. It simply isn't possible. The Lords are beyond the hand of death. Still, your kind does provide some amusement for them. I wonder, are you free agents, hoping for spoils, or did the Madonna send you?"
What had the Mother of God to do with any of this? Clive thought. But then he realized that in this place, the name could mean anything. And anybody.
"Ah. here's your transport now." their captor said as a door hissed open in what had appeared to be a blank wall.
A small horseless cart on fat wheels rolled through and came to a stop in front of them. The sound of its engine was a low hum. There were two seats in the front—one occupied by the driver, the other empty— and a cargo area in the back where, presumably, their stiff bodies would be laid.
The driver, while obviously of the same half-human, half-mechanical race as their captor, was otherwise as different from the first man as night was to day. He was thin as a rake, almost cadaverous, bones prominent against the tight fit of his skin, eyes deep-set and ringed with black circles, skin pale. Where the first man had a jolly look about him, the newcomer looked as dour as a Scots churchman.
Because the pair of them were transporting bodies, albeit living ones, Clive promptly christened them Burke and Hare. Burke was the newcomer; Hare the rotund captor who had first snared them.
"Easy now." Hare was saying as they laid Smythe in the back of the cart. "Don't want the goods damaged before the lords have their fun with them, or maybe you'll be taking their place."
Burke muttered something unintelligible in their own tongue.
"It was just a joke." Hare replied. "Of course the Lords would never feed on us. We never meant them any ill."
It was obvious. Clive thought, that Hare continued to speak in English just to make them feel more ill at ease. He wanted them to have to think about what lay ahead.
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