“Oh,” said Hobi.
Goose bumps pricked his arms and he shivered. On the upper levels it was always the same temperature, unless you were at one of ziz’s weather parties. Hobi squinted, trying to see where Nasrani waited; finally made him out more by his smell (cardamom-water and snuff) than sight.
“Damn,” the boy whispered. He stepped forward cautiously, waving his hands in front of him. His eyes must be getting used to the darkness. He could see faint flickerings of red and orange that made the shadows of things, Nasrani for instance, loom even larger and more forbidding than what they portended. “Nasrani?” he called anxiously.
The exile was bent over one leg, pulling something from his boot. “Just a minute—” he cried, and turned to the boy.
A beam of light sliced through the air, blinding Hobi. He shouted and fell; then cringing waited for the exile to strike. When he dared lift his head he saw Nasrani standing in front of him, adjusting the levels on a lumiere.
“Sorry, sorry,” Nasrani muttered. “Had it all the way up. I always do that here. You expect it to be dark but forget that a little goes a long way. By little I mean light, of course.” The exile waved the lumiere impatiently, its beam now narrowed to the breadth of a finger. “Come on then. Mind the crocodiles.”
Hobi stumbled to his feet, glancing around nervously. “Crocodiles?”
The exile said nothing. Hobi followed him, hoping that by crocodiles Nasrani referred to the ground beneath their feet, which was waffled and beslimed as some great cracked reptilian skin. More than once he stumbled, or teetered swearing on one foot when the ground seemed to give way beneath him. The lumiere served only to point out bits of things—a glittering eye, for instance, that disappeared when Hobi stopped to stare more closely. When he turned back Nasrani and his lumiere were nearly out of sight. The boy hurried after him.
They seemed to be groping down an alley. It stank of sewers and something else, a strange grubby smell. Could it be mud? Hobi paused long enough to stoop and let his fingers touch the ground. It felt soft and damp, and gave way to the pressure of his hand. Maybe the rumors were true, and the Undercity really was the site of the original city, and he was walking on real dirt. The thought made his stomach churn. He shuddered and started walking again.
“Keep close to me here, Hobi.” The exile stopped. He grabbed Hobi by the shoulder and drew him close. Then very slowly Nasrani stepped forward, Hobi trying not to trip beside him. The alley ended abruptly. They took a step down, and another; and then the exile pointed upward.
“There it is,” he said.
Hobi gasped. Above them reared the immense ziggurat that was Araboth. Level after level after level it soared, so far above them that the periwinkle lights of Cherubim and Seraphim twinkled faint as stars and the fires of the refineries could be seen only as fingers of scarlet and gold clawing at the darkness. Gazing upon it like this a horrible feeling took hold of the boy: as though the city were alive and he crouched beneath it, his only hope of survival that the behemoth did not see him there.
“The Holy City of the Americas.” Next to him the exile’s voice rang coldly. Hobi wanted to cry out, beg him to keep silent lest he draw attention to them; but Nasrani went on, his tone bitter, almost cruel. “ Araboth is what the ancients called Seventh Heaven, the city of god. Did you know that, Hobi? But of course you wouldn’t. That is why the Prophets named each level after one of the Divine Choirs. So here you are, looking upon the celestial city. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
He laughed, a miserable sound, and swept his arms out. The lumiere’s beam lanced through the blackness until it was swallowed by the void. Hobi opened his mouth but could say nothing, only stare dumbly at the awful vision before him. With a last bitter laugh, Nasrani cried,
“When all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,
All places shall be hell that is not Heaven.”
Then he stepped forward once more, and Hobi had no choice but to follow.
He walked with his hands held out protectively in front of him, batting at the empty air. They seemed to be walking on the ruins of an ancient avenue. The shadows of crumbling buildings stood to either side, and openings that might be other roads leading into the darkness. There was a heavy stench hanging about it all, a smell that reminded Hobi of the scent that seeped in through the filters, the smell of the sea. But this was stronger, and there was in it too the rank odor of decay, of stagnant water and mildew.
Occasionally sounds echoed down from very high overhead, shrill noises and explosions from the refineries, and what sounded like chanting. From the shadows of the decaying buildings Hobi sometimes heard noises—a sort of slithering sound, like something being dragged across the ground, and once a murmuring like voices. But he saw nothing clearly, only occasional jots of gold, like candlelight reflected from a glass of claret.
“Sorry to bring you around this way,” Nasrani called to him. His voice once more held its accustomed note of playful irony. He seemed familiar with the way. At least he did not stagger and trip against things the way Hobi did, or swear except very softly when something snagged his greatcoat. It seemed they had been walking for a long time now, an hour maybe.
Hobi’s fear faded to a faint though constant anxiety. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “Um, Nasrani—this is—would you mind telling me—”
“What?” The exile turned, the lumiere showing his frown. “Did you say—”
Suddenly the man shouted and fell to his knees. With a cry Hobi reached to help him.
“Nasrani! What is it—”
“I don’t know!” He clutched Hobi’s hand and stood, brushing himself off, and retrieved the lumiere. “There—can you see anything there?”
He pointed the light at the ground. Hobi squinted, shaking his head. Nasrani pushed him forward a little, until Hobi felt the ground give way beneath him. He yelled and lurched against Nasrani.
“It’s a hole! ”
His heart pounded so that he gasped for breath. The thought of a hole down here, where it could plunge into the very core of the earth itself! And Nasrani had nearly pushed him into it! Hobi turned, his voice rising as he swore furiously, but Nasrani only grabbed his arm and shook him hard.
“I wouldn’t have let you fall, Hobi—but it’s there, right? You felt it too?”
Hobi yanked his arm free. He caught his breath, nodding. “Ye-es. There’s a hole there—what’s that mean?”
Nasrani’s voice echoed as he inched forward. Hobi could hear him shuffling carefully to the left. “Here—” he called after a minute. “Come this way, but be careful—”
Hobi edged after him, hugging his arms to his shoulders. He heard loose stones or dirt rattle under his feet and then fall away, the sound abruptly silenced.
“Oh, god,” Hobi muttered; but then Nasrani was gripping his arm and pulling him gently forward, until he felt more solid footing. He fell forward, his hands smacking against a wall as he gasped in relief.
“What does it mean?”
The exile’s voice came very close to Hobi’s face. The boy started, still trying to catch his breath. Something clinked; the lumiere cast its feeble light upon a handful of keys. Nasrani picked out one and held it up to the light. He said, “It means there is a fissure here that was not here yesterday.”
“What?” Hobi shook his head. “A fissure, what do you mean, a fissure?”
“A fissure. A hole, a rift. A break in the earth. Now.”
He raised the lumiere so Hobi could see that they stood in a recessed doorway. The brick walls gleamed damply. Tendrils hung from the corners of the ceiling. When Hobi touched them they felt wet and pulpy, and his fingers smelled of rotting fish.
“I don’t understand,” the boy said uneasily, wiping his hand on his trousers.
“It used to happen Outside.” Nasrani rattled a doorknob. “Earthquakes. The ground would open up. Not here—I mean not in this part of the continent. I don’t understand it, th
ere shouldn’t be any threat of earthquakes here. A gap like that could breach the integrity of the whole foundation….”
Breach. Hobi went cold.
His father. The Architects. A breach in the fundus of Angels.
“…have to ask your father if he knows anything about this. Watch that fungus there.” Hobi jumped as the exile poked him. There was a loud click. “Ah, here we are—”
A gust of musty air rushed out to choke them. “Come now.” Nasrani coughed, pulling at Hobi’s sleeve. Behind them the door slid shut with a sucking noise. They stood in total darkness, except for the lumiere’s tiny glow.
“Wait here,” commanded Nasrani.
“What—” Hobi stammered, but the exile had already crossed the room. From the darkness came a faint ticking, a soft hum as of machinery. Hobi’s heart throbbed painfully. He thought he might faint.
From across the emptiness came a flltt! A candle flared into life, so bright and sudden that he gasped. Then another, and another, until the room was ringed with light. Hobi raised his arm, shielding his eyes. Across the walls Nasrani’s goblin shadow leaped and crouched. Hobi stepped forward, amazed.
“What is this place?” he whispered.
All around the circumference of the room were cabinets. Small ones that barely came to Hobi’s knees. Tall ones that towered above him. Cases that covered an entire wall, and some so small they must have been designed for ornamental value alone. In front of a metal cabinet stood the exile, the split tails of his greatcoat curling behind him like wings. In his hand flickered a candelabrum, so encrusted with yellow wax it resembled some bizarre plant. He raised it, pointing to where a long banner draped the wall.
“Witness the wonders of the ancients,” Nasrani said dryly.
Hobi walked until he stood beneath the banner. Across it spilled crude, luridly painted letters:
DOCTOR MONDO’S AMAZING CYCLORAMA!
Hobi glanced at Nasrani, then at the banner again. Ragged and charred at the edges, its colors had faded—blue to a pale shade that was almost white; red to a bloody smear; green to a pallor that reminded Hobi of the strings of moldy stuff hanging from the door outside. The corners of the banner had frayed and then been painstakingly repaired with heavy black thread that tore through the fragile cloth like a razor. It looked to be several hundred years old.
SEE! THE TITANIUM CHILDREN!
MAXIMILLIAN UR: THE BANE OF SHEIKS!
THE ANODYNE PHYSICIAN: HER SIGHT ALONE WILL HEAL YOU!
MOGHREBI: PRINCESS OF THE SANDS!
WISE APULIEUS: WILL HE MAKE AN ASS OUTOF YOU?
NEFERTITY: THE BEAUTIFUL ONE IS HERE!
Beneath the names was a badly drawn picture of a woman’s head. She stared straight out at Hobi with large tilted eyes, a cool gaze that was all the more unsettling for the crudeness of its execution. Hobi stared back at her, then crossed the room to join Nasrani where he stood in front of a tall steel cabinet.
It held a woman; at least he thought it was a woman. She stood behind the glass, regally tall, skin black as oil, eyes closed and mouth in a tight grimacing smile. Looking at her Hobi felt distinctly queasy. He was certain she was dead.
“She is only sleeping,” whispered Nasrani, as though he read his thoughts. The boy jumped. Nasrani held up his candelabrum so that its wavering light cascaded across the glass in ripples of black and yellow. “Second Ascension. Very rare.” He scraped a bit of wax from the case, shaking his head. “Be careful around her. She is very sensitive to noise and light.”
Hobi gaped. “She’s alive? Who is she?”
Nasrani made a small pfff of disdain. “Alive? Of course she’s alive. I told you, she is sleeping. They are all sleeping.”
He swept his arm in an arc, waves of light trailing the candelabrum and bouncing from the other cases. He gestured at each one as he intoned their names.
“Moghrebi, the Blackamoor Princess. The Skeptic Apulieus. Maximillian Ur, the Bladed Nemesis. The Titanium Children, Jackie and Jane. And Nefertity: The Beautiful One Is Here.”
Hobi looked around the room nervously. “She is?”
Nasrani tilted his head, annoyed. “Her name. That’s her name. Nefertity: The Beautiful One Is Here.” He gestured impatiently toward a case at the far end of the room, then said, “I found them when I was—exploring—down here, many years ago. There was a tunnel, the remains of a sewage system.
“It led—well, never mind where it led. I followed it, and eventually I found them, just sprawled everywhere, totally neglected. No sign that humans or Architects had been there in ages. Nothing but abandoned buildings, rusting machinery— such machines, Hobi! Giant wheels, immersible booths, elevated transways—they were rotting amid the ruins of a funfair ! Obviously the idiots who had found them had no idea what they were—they must have discovered some forgotten cache of an earlier Ascension and thought they had god’s own amusement arcade.” Patting the outside of the metal cabinet he added, “Moghrebi here was designed as an intelligence unit for the Thirty Wars in the East. But they were using her for”—he spat the words—“fortune-telling!”
Within her glass case Moghrebi remained motionless. Hobi stared at her, trying to focus despite the flickering light and shadows, trying to see if she was breathing. After a full minute he was certain she was not.
“She’s a replicant,” he said at last.
Nasrani looked at him as though he were mad. “Android,” he snapped. He turned and stalked across the room. Hobi trailed after him, chagrined.
When he reached the far wall, Nasrani put down his candelabrum and crouched to inspect a tiny cabinet. Hobi heard a soft click; then a figure no bigger than his hand somersaulted out, to straighten and stand at Nasrani’s feet.
“Toys,” said the exile. He extended a finger to touch the tiny figure’s head. It was a woman, a green woman. Antennae like filaments of glass sprouted from above her eyes, quivering. “That fraud Planck should see these. He’d be ashamed to peddle those pathetic cretins of his—” He snapped his fingers and the tiny woman vaulted back into her case.
There were others, many others. Hobi lost count after Maximillian Ur with his clashing knives and the Anodyne Physician, the Mechanical Baboon and her dog-faced brood who danced when Nasrani raised his arm and commanded them. A retrofitted scholiast with an eyeless face and hands like a young boy’s, groping and eager as they reached to stroke Hobi’s cheek. Wise Apulieus, looking surprisingly modern in his white jacket and simple gold jewelry. The Titanium Children, Jackie and Jane, their azurine eyes regarding him with detachment as they danced a silent tango across the darkened room. Moghrebi, intoning dire prophecies as she went through the motions of reading a small paper volume. Nasrani woke them all, going from case to case and opening the glass doors to release them into the flickering shadows of the great chamber, until the place was full of them: laughing, chattering, dancing, singing, silent androids and robots, tiny monads and automatons and replicants. Humanoid and animal, children of metal and monkeys spun of glass, they bowed to Nasrani and greeted him by name, then turned gracefully to his guest.
“Charmed,” murmured Apulieus, stroking the boy’s cheek with a hand that felt smooth and dry as wood.
“You must surrender!” roared Maximillian Ur. His three rows of steel teeth clashed together with a sound like grinding gears.
“If you will please lie down we can begin the examination,” crooned the Anodyne Physician.
Hobi looked around a little desperately. “Nasrani,” he called out, finally sighting him in a dim corner.
“I saved them,” explained Nasrani, walking with care to join the boy. In one hand he cradled another of the tiny monads, this one with dragonfly’s wings of transparent blue glass. “It took years—I watched every ’file I could find, read everything I could about them. They had all been perverted from their original uses, as weapons or medics or intelligence units. Except for these, of course.”
He held up the monad. Its wings whirred and it rose into the air a
few inches above his palm. “Monitors, to watch children. Or maybe they were toys. By the time they ended up here no one remembered why they had been made.” He watched the graceful creature dart across the room, then sighing left Hobi among the small crowd of replicants.
Hobi watched him, curious. The exile seemed to have forgotten him: he crossed to the darkest end of the room and there stood brooding in front of a cabinet that Hobi had not noticed earlier.
“Nasrani?”
The exile said nothing. Gently the boy pushed away the Anodyne Physician’s probing hands and went to Nasrani, stepping carefully over flickering candles until he reached the cabinet. Nasrani stood in silence, one hand tracing the edge of a delicate golden handle in the front of the case.
Hobi had never seen anything like it before. A kind of sarcophagus of glass and chromium, with pale blue and yellow and pink tubes curved about its crown. Nucleoceptive fluid flowed through the tubes, silvery bubbles rising in long streamers until they disappeared at its top. Behind them the other replicants and robots hissed and clattered while the candles died and the air grew soft with the scent of burning wax. In front of him the sarcophagus glowed painfully bright, vivid rose shot with deep blue highlights. But he couldn’t make out what was within the case—the light had a peculiar clouded quality, as though it were heavily filtered; as though whatever was inside were so brilliant it would blind whoever gazed upon it. Still, after a moment or two his eyes grew accustomed to it. He glanced at Nasrani, but the man still paid him no notice. Hobi stepped closer to him and leaned forward to see what was inside.
Ever after, he remembered this moment as the one that changed his life: an instant when all the real sounds—Apulieus intoning to Maximillian Ur, the Automated Tenor doing scales, even Nasrani’s soft breathing—died, and he heard from somewhere else a single clear note, as though a glass bell had been struck. Nefertity would tell him he had imagined it, but Hobi had never imagined anything in his life. The sound was real as the figure in the case before him.
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