Ilium

by Dan Simmons

  “I’ve never heard of this,” said Hannah, joining them to put her shoulder against the invisible wall. “What sense does it make to have a forcefield in a fax pavilion?”

  “We’re trapped!” said Daeman, eyes rolling. “Like rats.”

  “Moron,” said Hannah. The two did not appear to be getting along well today. “You can always fax out. The portal’s right there behind you and it’s still working.”

  As if to prove Hannah’s point, two spherical, general-use servitors came through the shimmering faxportal and floated toward the humans.

  “This field is keeping us in,” Ada said to the servitors.

  “Yes, Ada Uhr,” said one of the machines. “We regret the delay in getting here to help you. This faxnode is . . . rarely used.”

  “So what?” said Harman, crossing his arms and scowling at the lead servitor. The other sphere had moved off to float near one of the supply cubbies in the pavilion’s white column. “Since when are faxnodes sealed off?” continued Harman.

  “My apologies again, Harman Uhr,” said the servitor in the almost-male voice used by all general-purpose servitors everywhere. “The climate outside is inhospitable in the extreme at this time of year. Were you to venture out without thermskins, your chances of survival would be low.”

  The second servitor extracted four thermskins from the cubby and floated past the four humans, offering the less-than-paper-thin molecular suits to each person in turn.

  Daeman held the suit in two hands and looked puzzled. “Is this a joke?”

  “No,” said Harman. “I’ve worn one before.”

  “So have I,” said Hannah.

  Daeman unfurled the thermskin. It was like holding smoke. “This won’t fit on over my clothes.”

  “It’s not supposed to,” said Harman. “It has to go next to the skin. There’s a hood on it as well, but you’ll be able to see and hear through it.”

  “Can we wear our regular clothes over it?” asked Ada. There was a hint of concern in her voice. After her useless exhibitionism the night before, she was not feeling very adventurous. At least not when it came to nudity.

  The first servitor answered. “Except for footwear, it is not advisable to wear other layers, Ada Uhr. For the thermskin to be effective, it must be fully osmotic. Other clothes reduce its efficiency.”

  “You have to be kidding,” said Daeman.

  “We could always fax back home and get our coldest weather clothing,” said Harman. “Although I’m not sure that it would be up to the conditions outside here.” He glanced at the shimmering forcefield wall. The howling wind was still quite audible and frightening beyond it.

  “No,” said the second servitor, “standard jackets and coats and capes would not be adequate here in the Dry Valley. We can facture more modest extreme-weather clothing and return with it within the next thirty minutes if you prefer.”

  “Hell with it,” said Ada. “I want to see what’s out there.” She walked to the center of the pavilion, behind the faxportal itself, and began disrobing in plain view. Hannah took five steps and joined her, peeling off her tunic and silken balloon trousers.

  Daeman goggled a moment. Harman walked over to the younger man, touched his arm, and led him to the far side of the circle, where he began undressing as well. Yet even as he disrobed, Daeman glanced over his shoulder several times at the women—Ada’s skin glowing rich and full in the light from the overhead halogens; Hannah lean and strong and brown. Hannah glanced up from tugging the thermskin up her legs and scowled at Daeman. He looked away quickly.

  When the four stood in the center of the pavilion again, wearing only their shoes or boots over the thermskins, Ada laughed. “These things are more revealing than if we were naked,” she said.

  Daeman shuffled with embarrassment at the truth of the statement, but Harman smiled through his mask. The thermskin was more paint than clothing.

  “Why are we different colors?” asked Daeman. Ada was bright yellow, Hannah orange, Harman a brilliant blue, Daeman green.

  “To identify each other easily,” answered the servitor as if the question had been directed to it.

  Ada laughed again—that free, easy, unselfconscious laugh that made both of the men glance at her. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just that . . . it’s pretty obvious, even from a distance, which of us is which.”

  Harman walked to the forcefield and set his blue hand against it. “Can we pass now?” he asked the servitors.

  The machines did not answer, but the force shield wavered slightly, Harman’s hand passed through it, and then his blue body appeared to be moving through a silver waterfall as he stepped through.

  The servitors followed the four into the windy darkness.

  “We don’t need your escort,” Harman said to the machines. Daeman noticed that the other man’s voice was lost in the wind, but he could hear clearly through the thermskin cowl. There was some sort of transmission device and earphones in the molecular suit.

  “I apologize, Harman Uhr,” said the first servitor, “but you do. For the light. “ Both servitors were illuminating the rough ground with multiple flashlight beams from their shells.

  Harman shook his head. “I’ve used these thermskins before, in the high mountains and far north. They have light-enhancement devices in the cowl lenses.” He touched his temple, feeling around for a second. “There. I can see perfectly well now. The stars are brilliant.”

  “Oh, my,” said Ada as her night vision switched on. Rather than the small circles of light afforded by the servitors’ flashbeams, the entire Dry Valley was now visible, each rock and boulder glowing brightly. When she looked up, the blazing stars took her breath away. When she turned her head, the lighted faxnode pavilion was a glowing, roaring furnace of light. Their thermskins glowed in color.

  “This is so . . . wonderful,” said Hannah. She walked twenty paces away from the group, jumping from rock to rock. They were at the bottom of a wide, rocky valley, with gradual cliffs on either side. Above them, snowfields glowed bright blue-white in the starlight, but the valley itself was all but free from snow. Clouds moved in front of the stars like phosphorescent sheep. The wind howled around them, buffeting them even when they stood still.

  “I’m cold,” said Daeman. The pudgy young man was shifting from foot to foot. He had worn only walking slippers.

  “You may return to the pavilion and leave us,” Harman said to the servitors.

  “With all due respect, Harman Uhr, our person-protection programming does not allow us to leave you here alone to run the risk of injury or getting lost in the Dry Valley,” said one of the servitors. “But we shall retreat a hundred yards, if that is your preference.”

  “That’s our preference,” said Harman. “And turn off those damned lights. They’re too bright in our night-vision lenses.”

  Both servitors complied, floating back toward the faxnode pavilion. Hannah led them across the valley. There were no trees, no grass, no signs of life whatsoever, outside of the four human beings glowing in bright color.

  “What are we hunting for?” asked Hannah, stepping over what might have been a small stream in summer—if, indeed, summer ever came to this place.

  “Is this the site of the Burning Man?” asked Harman.

  Daeman and Hannah both looked around. Finally Daeman spoke. “It could be. But there were—you know—tents and pavilions and rest rooms and flowdomes and the forcefield over the valley and big heaters and the Burning Man and daylight and . . . it was different then. Not so cold.” He hopped gingerly from foot to foot.

  “Hannah?” said Daeman.

  “I’m not sure. That place was also rocky and desolate, but . . . Daeman’s right, it looked different with the thousands of people and sunlight. I don’t know.”

  Ada took the lead. “Let’s fan out and hunt for some sign that the Burning Man was held here . . . campfires, rock cairns . . . something. Although I don’t think we’ll find your Wandering Jew person here tonight, Harman.
”

  “Shhh,” said Harman, glancing over his blue shoulder at the distant servitors, then realizing that they were broadcasting their conversation anyway. “All right,” he said with a sigh, “let’s spread out, say a couple of hundred feet apart, and look for anything that . . .”

  He stopped as a large, only vaguely humanoid shape appeared from a side canyon. The creature picked its way across the rocks with a familiar awkward grace. When it got within thirty feet, Harman said, “Go back. We don’t need a voynix here.”

  One of the servitors answered, its voice in their ears even though the sphere itself floated far behind them. “We must insist, my gentlemen and ladies. This is the most remote and hostile of all known faxnodes. We cannot risk the small chance that something here could harm you.”

  “Are there dinosaurs?” asked Daeman, his voice on edge.

  Ada laughed again and opened her arms and hands to the dark and howling cold. “I doubt it, Daeman. They’d have to be some tough recombinant winter breed I’ve never heard of.”

  “Anything’s possible,” Hannah said, pointing to a large rock near the entrance to another side canyon about fifty yards to their right. “That could be an allosaurus right there, just waiting for us.”

  Daeman took a step back and almost tripped over a rock.

  “There aren’t any dinosaurs here,” said Harman. “I don’t think there’s any living thing here. It’s too damned cold. If you doubt me, lift your cowls for a second.”

  The others did. The molecular earphones rang with their exclamations.

  “You stay back unless called,” Harman directed the voynix. The creature moved back thirty paces.

  They walked up the valley—northwest according to their palm direction finders. The stars shook from the force of the wind and occasionally all four of them would have to huddle in the shelter of a large boulder to keep from getting blown over. When the gale lessened in intensity, they spread out again.

  “There’s something here,” came Ada’s voice.

  The others hurried to join the yellow form a hundred feet to their south. Ada was looking down at what at first appeared to be just another rock, but as Daeman got closer, he saw the brittle hair or fur, the odd flipper appendages, and the black holes or eyes. The thing appeared to be carved from weathered wood.

  “It’s a seal,” said Harman.

  “What’s that?” asked Hannah, kneeling to touch the still figure.

  “An aquatic mammal. I’ve seen them near coastlines . . . away from faxnodes.” He also knelt and touched the animal’s corpse. “This thing’s dried out . . . mummified is the word. It may have been here for centuries. Millennia.”

  “So we’re near a coast,” said Ada.

  “Not necessarily,” said Harman, standing and looking around.

  “Hey,” said Daeman, “I remember that big boulder. The beer pavilion was pitched just below it.” He made his way slowly to the boulder near the cliff wall.

  “Are you sure?” asked Ada when they’d caught up. There was only the rock slab rising toward the coldly burning stars and hurrying clouds. Everyone looked on the ground for signs of the tent or campfires or carriole tracks, but there was nothing.

  “It was a year and a half ago,” said Harman. “The servitors probably cleaned up well and . . .”

  “Oh, my God,” interrupted Hannah.

  They all turned quickly. The orange-suited young woman was looking skyward. They lifted their heads, even as they each noticed the play of colored light on the rocks around them.

  The night sky was alive with curtains of shimmering, dancing light—bars of blues and yellows and dancing reds.

  “What is it?” whispered Ada.

  “I don’t know,” Harman responded, also whispering. The light continued to writhe across the uncloudy portions of the sky. Harman lifted off his thermskin cowl. “My God, it’s almost as brilliant without the night-vision. I think I saw something like this once decades ago when I was . . .”

  “Servitors,” interrupted Daeman, “what is this light?”

  “A form of atmospheric phenomenon associated with charged particles from the sun interacting with Earth’s electromagnetic field,” came the voice from the distant machine. “We no longer have the particulars of the scientific explanation, but it goes under different names, including . . .”

  “All right,” said Harman. “That’s enough . . . hey.” He had pulled on his cowl again and was looking at the rock slab in front of them.

  There were complex scratchings on the rock. They did not look as if they had been made by the wind or other natural causes.

  “What is it?” asked Ada. “It doesn’t look like the symbols in the books.”

  “No,” agreed Harman.

  “Something from the Burning Man?” said Hannah.

  “I don’t remember scratches on the rock near the beer tent,” said Daeman. “But maybe the servitors scratched up the surface moving some of the stuff out after the celebration.”

  “Perhaps,” said Harman.

  “Should we keep hunting around here?” asked Ada. “Try to find some sign that this woman you’re after was here? Or even that the Burning Man was here? Maybe there are some ashes left.”

  “In this wind?” laughed Daeman. “After a year and a half?”

  “A pit,” said Ada. “A campfire. We could . . .”

  “No,” said Harman. “We’re not going to find anything here. Let’s fax somewhere warm and get some lunch.”

  Ada turned her yellow head to look at Harman, but she said nothing.

  The two servitors had floated toward them and the voynix loomed just behind them.

  “We’re going,” Harman told the closer servitor. “You can use your flashlight beams to illuminate our way back to the fax pavilion.”

  It was just after midday in Ulanbat and the usual hundred or so guests were milling at Tobi’s ongoing Second Twenty party on the seventy-ninth floor of the Circles to Heaven. The hanging gardens rustled and sighed from the breeze blowing off the red desert. Daeman was greeted by a host of young men and women who had not noticed his absence over the past few days, but he followed Harman, Hannah, and Ada as they found hot finger food at the long banquet table and had cold wine poured by a servitor. Harman led them away from the crowd to a stone table near the low wall at the edge of the circle. Eight hundred feet below, camel caravans driven by servitors and followed by voynix padded in on the hard-packed Gobi Highway.

  “What is it?” said Ada as they sat in the garden shade and ate. “I know something happened back there.”

  Harman started to speak, paused, and waited for a servitor to float past. “Do you ever wonder,” he asked, “if that utility servitor is the same one you just saw somewhere else? They all look alike.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Daeman. Between bites on a chicken leg, he was licking his fingers and sipping his chilled wine.

  “Perhaps,” said Harman.

  “What did you see back there in the dark?” asked Hannah. “Those scratches on the rock?”

  “They were numbers,” said Harman.

  Daeman laughed. “No they weren’t. I know numbers. We all know numbers. Those weren’t numbers.”

  “They were numbers written out in words.”

  “It didn’t look like the jiggles in books,” said Ada. “Words.”

  “No,” said Harman. “I think was the kind of writing people used to do by hand. The words were all loopy and connected and worn down some by the wind—I suspect that they were written there way back at the last Burning Man—but I could read them.”

  “Words,” laughed Daeman. “A minute ago you said they were numbers.”

  “What did they say?” asked Hannah.

  Harman looked around him again. “Eight-eight-four-nine,” he said softly.

  Ada shook her head. “It sounds like a faxnode code, but it’s way too high. I’ve never heard of a code that started with two eights.”

  “There aren’t any,” said
Daeman.

  Harman shrugged. “Maybe. But when we’re done here, I’m going to try it out at the core node here.”

  Ada looked out at the distant horizon. The rings were visible above them, two milky strings crossing in a pale blue sky. “Is that why you kept the four thermskins rather than throwing them in the disposal bin as the servitors told us to do?”

  “I didn’t know you noticed that I did,” said Harman. He grinned and drank wine. “I tried to do it on the sly. I guess I’m not very good at secrets. At least the servitors had already faxed away.”

  As if on cue, a servitor floated over to replenish their drinks. The little spherical machine floated beyond the wall—eight hundred feet above the red-yellow ground—as its dainty, white-gloved hands poured wine into their glasses.

  If Harman hadn’t insisted they change into their thermskins and wear them under their clothes before faxing, they might have died.

  “Good God,” cried Daeman, “where are we? What’s going on?”

  There was no faxnode pavilion. Code 8849 had brought them straight into darkness and chaos. Wind howled. There was ice underfoot. The four crashed into sharp things with every step they took in the screaming blackness. Even the faxportal had disappeared behind them.

  “Ada!” called Harman. “The light!” Their hoods provided night vision, but none of them had their hoods up at the moment and there seemed to be no ambient light to magnify in this absolute blackness.

  “I’m trying to get it on . . . there!” The small flashlight she’d borrowed from Tobi poured a thin beam into the night, illuminating an open door rimmed with frost, icicles three feet long, frozen waves of ice under foot. Ada swung the light and three thermskinned faces stared back at her, surprise clearly visible on each face.

  “There’s no pavilion,” Harman said aloud.

  “Every faxnode has a pavilion,” said Daeman. “There can’t be a portal without a node pavilion. Right?”

  “Not in the old days,” said Harman. “There were thousands of private nodes.”

  “What’s he talking about?” shouted Daeman. “Let’s get out of here!”