by Sean Platt
“What the piss is wrong with you?”
Nocturne barked.
“There aren’t any other dogs here, shitbox.”
Another bark, now wagging his tail while backing toward the open doorway.
So Peers left his bed again, wrapped himself in the soft, fragrant robe provided by the household, and plodded toward the doorway to see what the hell the dog had up his butt. Halfway there, he retraced his steps and put on a pair of big, puffy slippers. They were posh but black enough for Peers to consider them manly.
He stuck his head out into the hallway, half expecting to find one of Jabari’s assistants walking some froufrou breed of terrier, possibly with a pink bow in its hair, around the house for late-night exercise. That would be funny; Nocturne was large even for a lab, and chances were he’d annihilate a little dog if they played the race-to-the-ball game together.
But the hallway was empty.
Nocturne looked up at Peers. Then, likely anticipating more profanity, the dog trotted away, glancing back over his haunches, begging his owner to follow and join in the fun.
“No,” Peers said.
Nocturne barked halfway — a quieter noise than usual, perhaps in deference to the late hour, and the likelihood that others were sleeping.
“I said no.”
Another bark.
“I’m going to have you skinned and made into a wallet, you shitter.”
Nocturne had reached the short hallway’s end, where it met another perpendicular hallway. The dog ignored Peers, glancing off to the right, and barked in that direction. His big black head turned to Peers, ears flopping. His mouth dropped open, the ball falling to the floor with a disgusting smack. He dropped his front half down, elbows on the floor, elevated ass wagging feverishly: “downward dog” to human yoga aficionados; “play crouch” in dog parlance.
Before Peers could shout more epithets, the dog sprang from the crouch and ran off down the other hallway.
Peers mumbled to follow. There was nothing around the corner, but Nocturne kept going. Peers walked to the new hallway’s end and found himself facing another, also empty. The halls were like a hotel in Wonderland, endlessly lined with anonymous rooms, crisscrossing and intertwining in a configuration that Peers, exhausted, found impossible to follow.
“Fine,” he said at the next intersection to nobody in particular, hearing the now-distant scraping of dog claws and what sounded like a quiet human voice too low to hear. “But you’re out for the night.”
And that at least was something. He could close his door, and Nocturne wouldn’t be able to bug him again, unless of course he scratched at the door to be let in. Which he almost certainly would.
He turned and took the first step back toward his room, but that was all he managed before hearing a new sound behind him. He peeked back around the corner and saw small feet, small swinging arms, a mass of little-girl hair.
“Clara?” Peers said, finding himself suddenly spooked by the uncertain sound of his voice.
But Clara was gone, marching on to more exciting places in the dead of night.
He was about to follow, but then something caught his eye and he squinted, bending forward at the waist.
And said, again to no one in particular, “What’s this, then?”
CHAPTER 32
The big black dog ran ahead then sat in front of the wall, waiting for Clara, his tail wagging.
Clara’s memories of the Heaven’s Veil viceroy’s mansion were clearer than her mother liked to believe, and it struck Clara now how similarly they’d been constructed — on the inside, if not out; in the details, if not the overall scheme. Heaven’s Veil had been like a Roman palace, and this place was a fittingly Ancient Egyptian one with a kooky modern interpretation, but both were stone and wood, and the wood was always elaborately carved, sconces on the wall distinct but similar enough to have been born from the same basic mind. The floor plans echoed each other (Clara sometimes still walked the Heaven’s Veil mansion in her mind; she’d read once about a memory technique called the “memory palace” and used their old home as her place to mentally place things she ought not forget), and the room sizes were too consistently repeated to feel like coincidence. To Clara, the echoes felt like two places designed by the same architect using distinctly different styles: an artist could change her mode but never hide her own, innate voice.
Two mansions created by the same mind.
Which, considering what Clara could see in the Astral collective (not much, but she caught a sense the way she did with most things), made perfect sense. They had many bodies, and one shared mind.
It was different from the way humans had many bodies and one shared mind. But, like the mansions, similar at root.
The wall where Nocturne had sat himself was wood-paneled, carved and polished, bookended by crown molding and a five-inch baseboard. The floor was hardwood, not tile like much of the rest of the house or carpeted like others. They’d descended a flight of stairs, and windows vanished from the walls. But even without looking out into the dark, Clara’s internal compass told her she was a breath below ground, in the part of the house facing the Ark’s courtyard, way across on the far end. Viceroy Jabari had given them that virtual tour, showing them around the local area without actually needing to show them around. Clara knew the others found this suspicious — being shown around while still inside. Clara could feel by probing at Ms. Jabari — it was true, they weren’t permitted to leave. But she also sensed conflict inside the viceroy, and it was ordinary, everyday discord like Clara felt coming from her mother. Mom sometimes forbade Clara things she wanted because it was best for her, not because she wanted to be mean. Viceroy Jabari’s feelings were like that. Clara liked the viceroy and believed even the parts of what she said that Clara, by tuning in, couldn’t objectively prove true or false. She wouldn’t lead them into danger no matter what Mr. Peers might think.
Nocturne was still sitting by the wooden wall, his tail slapping the floor. The hallway died at the wall, and Clara knew that when she reached it, she’d have to decide between right and left. This pretty much had to be an outside wall, with the courtyard beyond it.
“Which way should we go, boy?”
The dog barked, not moving.
“You can pick,” Clara said.
Clara liked following the dog. It was definitely more fun than aimless wandering. She’d lain in her bed for a long time, pretending to sleep because Clara sleeping would make Mom feel most comfortable. But she hadn’t been sleeping; Clara had been in her internal space, talking to any who came from outside, exploring her memory palace back in Heaven’s Veil’s echo, gathering objects that her mind (except for the deep-down parts) had forgotten she’d once put there. But the minute Mom had risen, sleepless herself, and wandered back to find Original Grandpa, Clara had popped out of bed. She could roam without worrying her mother if she kept tabs on Mom’s mind, just to make sure she didn’t return while Clara was gone. So she’d shut out the others she usually tried to hear — Kindred, Grandma Piper, Mr. Cameron — and focused. And with her mother’s emotional presence buzzing in the back of her mind like the fluorescents had buzzed in the bunker when she’d been inside Mom’s belly, Clara had set out, exploring, led wherever her guide chose to take her.
But Nocturne wasn’t choosing a direction, so when Clara reached him, she ran a hand from his slick head and down his back, pausing to scratch under his ears. And then she pointed for him, spinning a little as she indicated right versus left.
The dog faced the wall.
“You can’t go that way, silly. There’s a wall.”
Nocturne barked.
Clara stepped off to the left. “How about this way? I think the kitchen is this way.”
The dog didn’t move, staying where he’d sat. He looked at Clara, panting happily.
“Maybe they have bacon in the kitchen.”
No movement.
“Come on.” Clara patted her leg.
And still
no movement. Until the dog stuck his butt in the air and rubbed against the baseboard moulding.
“Hey, hey! You’ll scratch it!”
She ran over to pull the dog away by his collar. Nocturne weighed more than Clara for sure, but he backed away willingly, panting at her with a dog-smile, as if he’d done well and she should praise him.
“Look at this, you bad boy,” Clara said, running her fingers along a series of dull scratches in the hardwood. They were faint, but noticeable once you really got in there and looked close. And there were plenty now that she saw them. More than should have been caused by a few seconds of digging at a corner. The damage was barely there, not much more than the normal scuffs in the rest of the hallway. But it was strange because these scuffs ran right into the baseboard.
Where, now that she looked, there appeared to be a recessed button. It looked like a little half-moon shape carved into the molding’s pattern, but there was clearly, on close inspection, a tiny gap around its edge.
A secret door? Clara’s heart raced at the idea. She suddenly fancied herself inside Mr. Cameron’s most cherished memories — the ones he kept hidden deep, and even a few that he hadn’t given Clara permission to investigate. Mr. Cameron and his father had found secret passages when they’d been exploring together. Those old memories usually came with arguments — father saying one thing, son insisting another.
You’re absolutely sure you want to go in there? Clara heard in her head.
But it was a ghost voice. Cameron’s dad from long ago — prelude to yet another boring lecture about how Cameron always insisted he knew things he didn’t because he was too proud. One of those memories Clara probably shouldn’t really go into because Cameron wouldn’t like her seeing, but to Clara it was all so mundane. He liked to be right. Was that really so bad? Clara liked to be right about things, too.
She pushed the tiny button. The dog nosed the wall as something clicked, opening a passage.
Clara’s internal compass had been right about one thing: this was an outer wall, and there really was just the courtyard beyond.
That’s probably why, with a mere three feet of clearance, the passage descended on a ladder.
Clara hesitated. She really shouldn’t go down there. It must be one of the passages Ms. Jeanine had said must be here somewhere, connecting the Ember Flats government buildings in case of emergency, but Clara wasn’t a viceroy running from bad guys. She was a bored little girl with an itch to explore.
Nocturne had no such compunctions. He leaped down into the tunnel, dropping six feet and landing lighter than he should have, like a cat.
Well, she couldn’t exactly leave Nocturne down there alone, could she? He’d found the passage, but Clara had opened it for him to drop into. She could go back and get help, but was there any point in waking Mr. Peers? He’d had a rough day, with almost changing his mind about killing the viceroy.
The tunnel had to come up somewhere. And if the only ways up were ladders that big black dogs were unable to climb? Well, that particular bridge could be crossed when she reached it.
She sent her mind out to her mother. With the others shut out, seeing Mom was easy. She was still talking to Original Grandpa, discussing the aliens’ memory bank and whether opening it was smart. It was good that particular decision wasn’t hers — of course she’d open it without thinking twice. Who could resist the lure of a big, gold mystery box? It had freaked her out the first time, just like Mr. Cameron. But it was okay now. Little wounds never lasted long.
Clara was fine. She could be gone from her bed for a bit longer, and Mom would never know. And if she had to leave Nocturne here and go for help getting him back up, she could do that later. The tunnel wasn’t all that scary-looking. There were at least a few small electric lights. The walls were concrete and tile.
Nocturne barked, and Clara climbed down to follow him as he walked off into the dim.
Some time later, the passage through the wall automatically ratcheted closed behind her.
CHAPTER 33
Below the doorknob, and a plate that read Utility Closet, three small triangles were carved into the wood. Peers probably wouldn’t have noticed them if he hadn’t been so tired — if the damned dog hadn’t dragged him out of bed. But he’d yawned at the right time; he’d let fatigue drag his footsteps down the hallway, and his lazy eye had grabbed the pattern. Even then, most people would have moved along, but not Peers. For him, the pattern of triangles was as instantly evocative as the scent of alcohol can be for those who’ve suffered a long hospital stay. Or, in the days before the Astrals’ arrival, the automatic alarm that screamed in people’s heads when a red-and-blue light flashes in their rearview.
He felt his heart quicken. It took less than a second before he felt himself tumbling backward in time, to his boyhood. He wasn’t in a mansion hallway; Peers was in a room sifting dust from the vaulted ceiling pouring sand like pounding rain. A kid with his hand on an ancient trigger, realizing he was deeper than he’d thought, or feared, or arrogantly decided. He was a little boy knowing he’d done wrong and fearing his father’s wrath. Knowing the stories of exile, that his own days among family and friends were truly numbered. He was a kid who’d always done mischief but who’d finally managed to do something irredeemable.
Peers blinked the torrent of emotions away. He’d buried all that. Long, long ago. He’d moved on. There’d been London. There’d been university. There’d been studies, always meant to replace what he’d once known in more intimate ways. There’d been the quest. He was a goddamned adult man now, with a Ph-fucking-D. Nobody was coming after him. He no longer needed to fear the belt, or the Tribunal.
But the symbol was there, true as the moon.
Peers looked down the hallway, toward where Nocturne had run off, then back the way he’d come. He was near enough to the last corner to step back and peek around it — the way was clear there, too. The house was quiet. He knew, based on what he’d heard after waking from his stupor, that the others’ rooms were near his own. But those rooms were now a full hallway back, not even visible. And during their brief tour, Kamal had told them most of the rooms were for visiting dignitaries, and thus were empty.
Still feeling watched — by a hidden camera or Astral device, perhaps — Peers squatted. He ran his fingers along the pattern, which at first he’d taken as dirt in an otherwise immaculate hallway. The carving was perfect as if stamped into the wood.
Three small triangles, upside down, arranged in a loose triangular pattern overall, with the tip pointing toward the floor.
He hadn’t seen that pattern in more than twenty years. After his exile to London, he’d seen its cousin. Kids around the world would have said the symbol looked like an upside-down, stretched-out version of the Triforce: a symbol from video games Peers hadn’t known, seeing as he’d grown up in tombs and sand dunes, playing hide and seek in ancient ruins. Today he’d say the symbol on the door looked like the Triforce. But back then, he’d wondered if it was coincidence that the good folks at Nintendo had created a symbol so similar to that of the Mullah. Mullah were everywhere, so why couldn’t they be in Japan?
Peers stood, feeling vertigo. The door was wood, not stone. It looked fresh enough to have been carved yesterday, not thousands of years ago. The mansion wasn’t ancient, or cobbled from other ancient sites.
No, whoever had carved that symbol had done it during the building — or perhaps the city’s — construction.
Whoever had carved it was almost certainly still here. And knowing the Mullah’s infiltration and placement tactics (like those of all the world’s great secret societies), that person would be someone in a position of authority, someone with sway and access. Perhaps even Mara Jabari herself. It was possible. Peers had been a kid back then, more interested in causing trouble than networking. He’d known only his clan.
It was too ironic. Peers had thought he was following Cameron Bannister, the way he’d followed his father. But maybe he was the one who’d been
shadowed all along.
He stood. Looked around again. And opened the door.
The room, with the door closed behind him, was true to its word. It wasn’t a tiny broom closet with scant room to maneuver, nor was it palatial. There were some valves for water mounted to the concrete with half-round metal brackets, plus a mess of wires snaking in and out of network hubs. Even with the Internet dead, Ember Flats had its own little network. But like those in the other cities, Peers was willing to bet the system was deliberately antiquated, obsolete even by the standards of ten years before occupation. The Astrals could have wired Ember Flats to the nines, but that would defeat the purpose. This place had been built by human hands, possibly with Astral assistance. And so its tech capacity had been purposely retarded. You don’t strengthen a leg by offering a stronger crutch.
Inspired, Peers closed his eyes and tried to think of the others in his group. But no, his brain was still just an old hunk of wet flesh. It’d take a lot more than slow web access to force his mind to consider the collective unconscious as a viable alternative, if there even was such a thing.
But other than the pipes and valves and wires and a few mops, buckets, and brooms, the place was ordinary. Maybe the marks on the door had been a coincidence. Maybe someone had been trying to draw a Triforce, and the door had been mounted upside down.
Swallowing, Peers scanned the room. The Mullah did nothing by accident. Someone had marked that door just as someone had authorized the marked door being discreetly set into place. Just as someone had laid all the bricks; just as Peers — if he knew his old fellows at all — was certain the house must have concealed passageways and tunnels.
Don’t be stupid. The Astrals would know if tunnels were being put in.