World Enough, and Time

by James Kahn

  “A sunlight-activated holographic movie—from my museum collection. A fabulous movie, depicting a Vampire invasion and battle. A classic, probably a hundred and fifty years old. Aba and his brother, Lev, hovered with the projection equipment between the sun and the island—hand-turned the reels—and it looked to everyone below as if Vampires were swarming down in droves, as if people were fighting and dying. It caused pandemonium, of course—the Venetians were running around everywhere, shooting at illusions. Meanwhile, I scoured the town for you. And brought you here.” He laughed, a hearty bellow. “When they find no one is dead in the morning, they’ll swear it was a collective vision, a message from God.”

  “A hologram,” Jasmine marveled.

  “What’s a hologram?” Josh was supremely confused.

  And so the hours passed, with attempted explanations of three-dimensional holography, attempted explanations of the Lost City through which they’d passed (“Maybe all Time is locked in there. Maybe we’re still in there.” “Maybe it was just what the old priest said …”); reminiscences of times past, speculations on times future, until at last they all drifted off to sleep, nestled into each other’s warmth under the vague shadow of the morrow.

  In the morrow it was decided that Jasmine and Lon would go spend the day scouting the sinister city, while the others remained behind. Beauty was still too weak for much adventure, and Humans (according to rumor) were not allowed past the main gates. Sum-Thin stayed with Josh to help tend Beauty. Isis and Humbelly just stayed close to Josh.

  Josh took out his quill, intending to set the record for the first time in many days. He stared first, at the falcon feather, for a long time. Torn, water-spoiled, and filthy, it was a sorry-looking pen indeed. Yet still it let the words flow. Joshua wrote with it: Dicey. Ollie. Rose. The quill had weathered much, as had they all. Josh wondered if the falcon Rose had set free so long ago was still flying. He wrote Rose’s name again. He appealed to the word that he might return her wing feather to her and set her free. “The Word is great, the Word is One …” he solemnly intoned.

  Sum-Thin left briefly and returned with a breakfast of scavenged nuts and crow’s eggs; but by the time she was back, Lon had already taken Jasmine under his wing to fly the several miles north to the gates of the City With No Name.

  It was a walled city. The outer walls were stone, one hundred feet high. There was but one entrance, across a moat formed by two large tributaries of the Sticks River. Guarding the entrance was a pack of Cerberi—vicious creatures with the bodies of Humans, each with three Dogs’ heads, trained to sniff out and attack any animal that wasn’t a Neuroman or Vampire. Lon and Jasmine got past this first station without problem.

  Once inside the Outer City, these restrictions were obvious: Vampires and Neuromans were the only creatures to be seen, with few exceptions. The exceptions were Human, and fit into two categories. There were Humans leashed at the neck, led usually in groups of two or three by their Vampire Pashas. And there were Humans in carts—usually five to ten per tumbril—being pulled by Neuromans in official uniform toward a large gate that led into the Inner City. And in the center of the Inner City, looming dark and blind as a pavor nocturnis, stood the castle.

  At first Lon and Jasmine simply walked up and down streets, monitoring the feel of the place, noting exits, hideaways, bars. A minor branch of the river flowed under the eastern face of the outer wall and cut through the city neatly, dividing it roughly in twain. A series of bridges crossed over the tributary, connecting the northern half of the enclave to the southern. Jasmine and Lon memorized the location of every bridge. For a while, they loitered near the main entrance to the Inner City, watching movements in and out, looking for hand signs, listening for passwords. There was a fifteen-foot brick wall precluding a view into the city, but it appeared that only Neuromans—and their Human prisoners—ever entered or exited. Vampires stayed entirely outside this inner wall. Lon was tempted to fly up and look in, but no one else was airborne, so he decided there was probably a rule against it.

  They decided to part company here. Lon would remain in the Outer City, to snoop around for Bal, and whatever else he could find. Jasmine would enter the Inner City, gather information, penetrate the castle itself, if possible. They would meet outside the front gate at dusk.

  They looked fondly once into each other and hugged.

  “Almost like old times,” whispered Jasmine.

  “I could almost wish we were running contraband again.”

  “We may yet,” she smiled. “In Humans.”

  “Until then.”

  They parted.

  “Eurydice, come here.”

  Dicey stood and walked over to the pillow Bal was reclining on. “Yes, my Blood,” she replied.

  “Do my nails,” he commanded.

  “What color, my Blood?” she queried.

  “The apricot, I think.” He didn’t look up from the book he was reading.

  She bowed. “Yes, Redness.” She glided over to the vanity to get the apricot nail polish, and as she did so, the tiny bells on her golden ankle bracelets tinkled playfully.

  Bal admired her discreetly over the top of his book—the pale, lithe body; the classic beauty of sunken eyes, pallid lips, flushed cheeks; the elegant jewelry adorning her neck, wrists, and ankles. A thousand sheer silk threads were sewn into her skin all around the base of the neck, from which point of attachment they hung loosely, flowing to the floor. Bal was pleased.

  She came back, sat at his feet; carefully began to paint the nails on each of his eight toes. “What are you reading?” she asked him.

  “The New World. It’s the Queen’s manifesto.”

  “May I read it when you’re finished?”

  “It’s not a book for you, Eurydice. It would only upset you.”

  She brought the heel of his foot up firmly between her legs as she continued to paint the nails.

  He rang a small glass bell on the table beside him. A young boy—naked save for the beautifully mounted jewels sewn into his skin, adorning his chest and face—entered quickly, carrying a rose liqueur on a silver platter. Bal took the drink from the tray. “Thank you, Ollie, you may go. Oh, wait, bring one for your sister, too.” Ollie bowed, ran out, and returned immediately with a goblet for Dicey.

  “Thank you, Ollie,” she said. His only answer was a glassy stare. He left again.

  Dicey sipped the brew, closed her eyes, pressed Bal’s heel in harder between her whispering thighs. “Take me,” she breathed.

  Bal kept reading. “I drained you almost dry yesterday,” he monotoned. “You need at least another week to renew your hemoglobin, you know that by now. I’ll have Angle tonight, or Michael.”

  She rubbed his thigh, imploringly. “I love it best, though, when—when I—when you almost take me to—when it’s almost too much—after I swoon, when I’m out and you’re still drinking, when I’m right at the edge, looking down into the eternal blackness, and your lips are the only thing holding me at the brink—I love it then, please, Bal—” she moved her hand higher up his thigh—“Take me to the edge.”

  He relented. “It won’t take much tonight, my little nymphet, a cupful, perhaps …” He pulled her into his lap and put two fingers on her carotid pulse. “Why, your heart is already racing at a hundred twenty …”

  “Only my excitement, Blood-sire …”

  “I shan’t take much tonight, missy. When your pulse reaches a hundred fifty, I stop, no matter—”

  “I beg you …” She put her hand down between her legs to grip his hardness as he laughed lasciviously, buried his fangs into her neck at the angle of the jaw, “and drank her insensate.

  Jasmine tried to look interested in a street vendor’s wares—a Neuroman, selling transistorized parts, probably pirated from dead Neuromans—while keeping her eye on the gate to the Inner City. Most of the comings and goings were Neuromans in official dress; even those out of uniform showed a badge to the Cerberus guarding the portal, though—and J
asmine had no badge. She wondered how to get through. Bluff? Over the wall? The solution came unexpectedly.

  From the top of the inner wall, fifteen feet up, came a great crackling and hissing. All eyes looked up. There on the battlements lay a twitching Human, mortally tangled in a wide grid of fine electrified wires that Jasmine could now see formed a crosshatching over the entire city, running from the outer wall to the inner wall to the castle spires. The Human, trying to escape over the wall, was instantly electrocuted.

  This was most important information for Jasmine. First, it demonstrated the existence of the screen covering the city—fine wires crisscrossing at two-foot intervals, effectively preventing all ingress and egress except through the one main gate. It was no wonder she hadn’t seen any of the Vampires flying; she thanked their good sense for keeping Lon from winging up to look over the wall. Second, there was electricity—a massive power source, probably driven by the river.

  The dead Human continued sparking, his clothes now aflame. It caused a commotion on both sides of the wall, and all the creatures in the area—including the guards at the gate—flocked to the scene to try to pull the carcass down. Jasmine took the diversion for what it was, and used the opportunity to slip past the gate, into the Inner City, unnoticed.

  The Inner City was smaller in size than the Outer, but no less crowded. The populace here consisted almost entirely of Neuromans, some in uniform. No Vampires were to be seen at all. Occasional Humans, on leashes or in cages, were apparent; and a number of Clones—usually in packs of three or four—ran briskly here and there, along a myriad of streets, all of which seemed to lead to the castle.

  Jasmine wandered, ears alert, her peripheral vision never removed from the fortress. She stayed generally astern of groups of chattering Neuromans of Clones, and in this way learned several essential facts relating to the castle and the functioning of the city. The castle was the home of the Queen and her council. This Jasmine understood to mean the New Animal and the genetic engineers who’d created it. Also in the castle were the Neuroman technicians and organizers responsible for the general operation of the city—hence, the official uniforms. The laboratories were housed in the castle as well: secret rooms in the keep, where Human experimentation went on. Finally—and most important—it became evident to Jasmine that only official Neuromans on official business were allowed into the castle proper. If she was going to get in, she would need papers.

  This wasn’t quite as difficult as it might have been, for one simple reason: Neuromans came in models. Jasmine’s model number, for example, was AR/ 83075. Walking along the street were dozens of Neuromans from the same line who bore at least a family resemblance to her; numbers from the same year with whom she shared arguably sibling features; and randomly, a Neuroman who could have—and probably did—come from the same mold. It was one of these that Jasmine chose to follow closely.

  As luck would have it, her doppelganger turned into a small tavern, called The Oligodendroglial Cell—a pun, Jasmine noted, that could be appreciated only by a Neuroman. She entered, sat at the bar, and ordered a sugared rum. Her uniformed look-alike took a table near the window, and was immediately joined by a later-model male with a loud voice and a glad hand. Jasmine stared into her glass as she listened to their conversation.

  “Elektra, where have you been?” demanded the male Neuroman. “You were supposed to come over last night, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Balis,” Jasmine’s double replied, “I’ve been working so much lately. I spent all night at the lab. Good news for the Queen, too.”

  “Really? What?” asked Balis with some interest.

  “Can’t say yet. Nothing earth-shattering. It’ll depend on what Zubin’s results show.”

  “Well, let’s celebrate anyway. Tonight, at my place.”

  “Can’t tonight, gotta go stand by with Zubin’s group.”

  “But that means hours of waiting with nothing to—”

  “I know, I just gotta be there, that’s all, in case anything—”

  “Wait, wait, I’ve got an idea. You on your way home now?”

  “Just to get some papers, then I got to get right back…”

  “Okay, okay. Listen. Drago is up in Ma’gas’ for the week, picking up a shipment of bauxite. So his lab is completely empty. Meet me there for an hour at 2200—if you can break away,” he added sarcastically.

  “Okay, maybe. Where’s Drago’s lab?”

  “B-347, just two doors down from Zubin’s. It’s perfect, if anything happens at Zubin’s while you’re gone, you can be back over there in thirty seconds.”

  “Well,” Elektra said coyly, “it might take me a little longer to get back there.”

  Balis leered with foreknowledge. He leaned over, licked her behind the ear, and stood to go. “See you tonight,” he said in a suggestive growl, emphasizing the spaces between the words.

  She surreptitiously squeezed her own nipple and winked at him. He left. She looked vaguely annoyed, finished her drink quickly and ordered another. She read over some papers she pulled out of her briefcase, making occasional notes. She ordered and drank a third drink. She left the bar. Jasmine got up and discreetly followed her.

  Elektra walked down one block, turned left, up another side street. Jasmine stayed twenty paces behind. At the next turning, Elektra went over a small walkway and entered what appeared to be a housing complex facing directly on the street. Jasmine retarded her pace, waited a minute, then knocked on the door Elektra had gone through.

  There were footsteps, and Elektra opened the door. “Yes?” she said. She was still in uniform, but her tunic was unbuttoned now.

  “Is this Elektra’s residence?” Jasmine asked in a ponderous tone.

  “Yes, I’m Elektra, what is it?”

  “I have a message from Zubin,” said Jasmine.

  Elektra’s eyes opened a bit. “Yes, go on,” she coached.

  Jasmine feigned uncertainty. “You have some … identification, perhaps?”

  Elektra was impatient. “Just tell me the message, of course I’m Elektra, who else would—”

  “I’m sorry, I just have to see—”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll get my card, wait a minute …” She turned in exasperation and walked back into the small room behind her. Jasmine entered, shut the door, and followed.

  “Here,” Elektra fumed, pulling an I.D. card out of the briefcase on the low table in the center of the room.

  Jasmine took the card, examined it, studied Elektra’s face. “It says here your nose is from the 1200 series, but you—”

  “Here, let me see that!” Elektra stormed over and took the card out of Jasmine’s hand with uncontrolled scorn.

  Standing beside the Neuroman scientist, Jasmine reached up—quickly, cannily—and broke open the hidden valve at the back of Elektra’s head.

  Elektra wheeled, alarms going off in her body instantly as the vital Hemolube began pouring out. “What did you do?!” she gulped, fearful, disbelieving. She put her hand to the back of her head, then brought it before her eyes: it was covered with the viscous fluid. She looked starkly at Jasmine. “Wait a minute, you’re not in uniform,” she breathed. “And you’re from my series, aren’t you? You …” But she didn’t get to finish.

  Jasmine was on her in a second, tumbling her to the floor, pinning her to the carpet, holding a pillow over her oozing head to muffle the cries. Being virtually identical models, their strengths were the same, but Jasmine, with surprise on her side, had gotten leverage. So she had simply to hold her position while Elektra struggled and strained uselessly, her resources ebbing, as her life’s blood flowed into the rug. It took fifteen minutes for her to die.

  Jasmine didn’t move for twenty, just to make certain. When she was sure Elektra was lifeless, she rose and examined the apartment.

  One room. Bed, table, two chairs, two lamps. Sink, bookshelves, cabinets. A telephone. She went through all the cabinets: cans of Hemolube, polysaccharide foodstuffs, household tools, so
aps, a box of petri dishes, a sexual device, some spare light bulbs, two bottles of perfume, a broken slide rule, and an empty picture frame. Next, the books: almost all antique genetic texts, including an atlas of Human mapping. There was a small electric oven in the corner, containing incubating cultures; and at the other end of the room, what appeared to be a rather large refuse bin. Jasmine lifted the lid to look inside, but to her surprise, it was bottomless. Or not quite. She shined down a flashlight she’d found in a drawer, and saw that the bin was actually the top of a tube that went straight down, perhaps fifty feet. There was a glint of reflection from the bottom, and Jasmine thought she could make out the sound of running water. Her luck was running, too: she looked for, and found, a thin ladder of rungs going down the inside of the tube, apparently all the way to the bottom. She stuck the flashlight in her belt, climbed into the bin, and slowly lowered herself down on the rungs.

  It was farther down than it looked. Estimating by the distance between rungs and counting a rung for every step, it was probably closer to one hundred feet before she dipped her left foot into the rushing water. She pulled back and turned on the light.

  What it was, was a tunnel, maybe fifteen feet wide, cut out of the rock, with about two feet of water flowing briskly along its bottom, carrying all manner of debris: soggy papers, dead animals, Vampire feces, machine parts, broken bottles, organic matter. It wasn’t the best smell, ever, either.

  So it was what Jasmine had hoped: the sewage system. Probably tributaries—artificial or otherwise—of the river; probably emptying out into the sea. She climbed back up to Elektra’s apartment in a hurry.

  She took off all her clothes and threw them down the bin. Next, she stripped Elektra, putting those clothes on the bed. She found a reel of copper wiring in a drawer, unwound about thirty feet, cut it off, and wrapped the corpse up with the last ten feet, twisting the end into a good strong knot. Finally, she hoisted the body up on her shoulder and climbed back down the tube into the sewer with it. When she reached the bottom, she dumped the cadaver into the moving water, where it bounced slowly in the current along the stony ground. The other end of the copper wire Jasmine tied around the bottom rung, so it kept the lifeless body on a twenty-foot tether down the dark bend of the sewer. That done, she climbed, once again, up into the apartment, rinsed herself off in the sink, and put on Elektra’s clothes.