The City We Became

by N. K. Jemisin

  “Really?” The Woman in White grins, delighted, as if she has waited whole ages of the world to be asked this question. “Really really. Oh, yes, no more need to whisper, now that the foundations have connected, and as my transplants choose themselves. Thank you for asking, fragment of Lenapehoking, or avatar of the Bronx, or whatever you prefer to be called. My name is R’lyeh. Can you say it?”

  It’s a shivery-sounding name—one that makes Bronca’s inner ears twitch and the roots of every hair follicle crawl. But while the name is otherwise meaningless to her, she sees from the corner of her eye that Queens’ eyes widen as she mouths, Oh fuck.

  Then the Woman in White giggles suddenly and pantomimes holding something, like a broomstick, in front of herself. In a pretend-gruff voice, she says, “Youshallnotpass. Always wanted to say that! And you shan’t, you disgusting creatures, pieces of this monstrous murdering city, pieces of shit. Staten Island has chosen to do what is right, and I will not let you interfere with her decision. So let’s rumble, boroughs of New York, soul of Hong Kong! Isn’t that what you call it? A rumble?” Somewhere beneath them, there is a deep, reverberating roil of sound, like a thunderstorm far belowground. Bronca catches her breath, thinking of the Bronx Art Center and the tower that consumed it, but nothing rises beneath them. It’s just a sound, for now. Just a rumble.

  And before them, grinning so widely that they can see nearly all of her teeth, the living embodiment of the city of R’lyeh spreads her long-fingered, long-nailed, elegant white hands in open invitation. “Come, then, City That Never Sleeps. Let me show you what lurks in the empty spaces where nightmares dare not tread.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “And lo, the Beast looked upon the face of Beauty”

  The cab ride is smooth and uneventful the whole way. Even Madison remarks on it: “Huh, I’d heard there was some kind of protest on FDR—it’s always the FDR, right?—forcing people to make all kinds of detours. But I haven’t seen a single ‘alternate route’ sign. Even feels like the traffic is getting out of our way.”

  Manny, who has noticed the faint aura limning the windows and visible exterior of the cab, glances at Paulo, who nods. “Well, you said your cab liked me,” Manny says. “Thanks for giving us a ride, by the way.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Madison says. She sounds amused rather than annoyed. “Only reason I’m headed this way is because the mayor wants to do some kind of old New York–new New York photo shoot tomorrow. You’re lucky as hell, dude.”

  Paulo nods again. Cities make their own luck, apparently.

  Getting into the old City Hall Station is almost too easy once Madison has dropped them off at the vaulted, colonnaded entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall subway stop. There are cops clustered all around it, and Manny sets his jaw, ready for unpleasantness as he and Paulo approach; three of the cops have visible white tendrils jutting from necks or shoulders.

  Two of the ones who don’t, however, move to intercept the tendriled ones when they make noises at Manny about not letting anyone into the station due to an apparent bomb threat. “Let ’em through,” says a woman who seems to outrank all the rest. She’s in plain clothes, and seems to be barely paying attention to anything, instead flipping through a sheaf of papers on a clipboard. “They’re here to fix things.”

  “Uh, these guys don’t look like Con Ed engineers,” says one of the intercepting cops. The tendril that juts from his left cheekbone is thick as an electrical cable.

  The plainclothes woman fixes him with a glare. “There some reason why I have to tell you things twice, Martenberg?”

  “No, I just—”

  “Did I ask for your opinion, Martenberg?” He protests again, and she tells him off again, eventually lowering the clipboard and squaring off to establish her dominance. While the two cops’ companions watch the combatants, Manny and Paulo walk into the station unmolested.

  “Want to tell me what just happened there?” Manny asks as they walk. “Because we really don’t look like Con Ed.”

  “Those who would help protect the city see what they need to see.”

  Well, alrighty then.

  The 6 trains aren’t running, shut down due to police investigation. They pass a few more cops, MTA engineers, some uniformed people who might be Homeland Security, and some actual Con Ed engineers, but no one else stops them, or even seems to see them. These people thin out as Manny and Paulo descend to the train platform, but the tunnels amplify their laughter and jokes. It’s clear they’re not worried about any bomb. Manny can’t see any signs of construction. Someone in authority has simply shut the station down for no clear reason.

  On the platform, an empty train sits with doors open and no conductor inside. “Do we just wait?” Manny says, stepping into the lead car. Paulo sits down opposite the conductor’s booth, but Manny can hear that there’s no one in it. He stands at the train’s forward window, peering into the dark that awaits down a curving, downward-angled tunnel corridor.

  “If you wait, will it go?” Paulo asks. It seems a sincere and not sardonic question, so Manny doesn’t bristle. In fact, it belatedly occurs to him that Paulo is trying to teach him something. And after a moment, as he feels the powerful nearby tug of the primary, he gets it.

  So he takes a deep breath and puts his hands on the smooth metal that surrounds the window. He’s only ridden a subway once before, but he makes himself remember that sensation now, as he did at the Bronx Art Center. The power of unseen, relentless engines driven by the mysterious and deadly third rail. The rocking, hectic speed. The driving needs of hundreds of people riding within—to get to important places for important reasons, to have a warm place to sleep, to keep them safe along the way.

  Safe, he thinks at the primary, and at the train that surrounds them. Yes. I’m coming to keep you safe. Now.

  “Stand clear of the closing doors, please,” he whispers. In the reflection of the glass, behind him, he sees Paulo smile.

  The PA system utters a little “ding-dong” tone, and then the train’s doors slide shut. There’s a faint hum from the undercarriage as the train turns on and its engines warm. In the tunnel up ahead, a signal switches from red to green. Then, slowly, the train jolts into motion.

  Manny’s half expecting someone to come running onto the platform to try to stop them, but it’s New York; if any of the personnel in the station hear the train start moving, they dismiss it as normal background noise, more familiar than the strange silence of before. So Manny’s 6 glides unmolested into the tunnel—and then, surprisingly quickly, they are at the old City Hall Station platform. Manny turns to the door as the train slows and then stops of its own volition. It knows where it needs to go better than he does.

  When the doors slide open, the platform beyond is pitch-dark; the defunct station has no power. Manny can make out glass skylights on the ceiling here and there—the same pattern of Beaux Arts ironwork that he saw in Bronca’s books—and a bit of moonlight coming through them. The light from the train car helps, but even this fades as they walk away from the train and into the bowels of the station. Manny fumbles in his pocket for his phone and turns on its flashlight. It’s barely enough to illuminate more than a foot-wide circle on the stone floor ahead of them; he hasn’t charged it since Inwood and the battery’s getting low. Better than nothing.

  When they’re a couple of feet past the subway train’s circles of illumination, the train’s lights suddenly go out with a loud electrical snap. In spite of himself, Manny jumps. But he doesn’t need his eyes to know where to go, not anymore. He can feel it. “This way,” he says.

  He feels Paulo latch on to the back of his jacket, letting Manny take the lead. “We must be careful,” Paulo says. “It was necessary that we come here, but the Enemy has seen us.” Manny grimaces, thinking of the tendriled cops. “It will know now that its target is here.”

  Manny sets his jaw. “Roger that.”

  There’s a set of steps after about twenty paces. Shining the flashlight aro
und, Manny finds that it leads into an arched stairwell. A sign on the arch, etched in green tile, proclaims that they stand within the station of CITY HALL. The ceiling of the arch is covered in marching, elegant white Guastavino tile patterns.

  Manny follows the stairs up, barely noticing as Paulo barks his toes on a step and mutters some imprecation in Portuguese. The sound of their footsteps and breathing whispers back at him from the arches of the ceiling. In his mind, the whisper forms words: here here here and at last at last at last. And then he turns the corner.

  It is both like, and unlike, his vision. There is the bed of old bundled newspapers. Its occupant lies amid a pool of pale moonlight, still and curled, his breathing so slow that it’s barely visible. Just a too-thin young Black man in worn cheap clothing, sleeping on trash like a homeless person. And yet… he radiates power. Manny shivers as waves of it ripple along his skin, feeding something within him that had begun to starve. Here, at last: the most special person in the whole city.

  Without thinking, Manny moves closer and puts out a hand to shake him awake. He needs to touch him. But a few feet from the primary avatar’s shoulder, Manny’s hand halts in the air. Something resists the gesture, as if his hand pushes against a sponge that he can’t see or feel. He tries again, harder, and makes a frustrated sound when, after a little give, the unseen resistance goes as hard as concrete. He cannot touch the primary.

  “So eager to be eaten?” Paulo’s soft voice startles Manny into turning sharply. He’d actually forgotten Paulo was there, for a moment. And then he twitches with the reminder.

  “I… didn’t think about the eating thing,” he admits. It makes him want to touch the primary a little less, but only a little.

  Paulo’s not much more than an etching in the dark, illuminated more by reflected moonlight than Manny’s phone light. He’s watching Manny, though, and his sadness is visible.

  “I’m his,” Manny blurts. It’s defensive, but he’s feeling a little raw right now. “He’s mine.”

  Paulo inclines his head in acceptance. “I will admit some envy,” he says gently. “To be part of a group going through this together is astonishing to me, and wonderful in many ways. I went through my own rebirth alone, like most cities.”

  It’s a perspective shift that Manny wasn’t expecting. “You knew him, then? Before…” He gestures at the bed of newsprint.

  “Of course. That’s how it usually works. The youngest city sees to the next.” Paulo sighs a little, into the dark. “It should have been Port-au-Prince. But I was happy to see this one make it through… until he fell into my arms, and then vanished.”

  Manny considers this as he gazes down at the sleeping figure. He tries to imagine the primary awake, vibrant, able to laugh and dance and run, and it’s easy. He’s so vibrant now, even asleep. But then Manny imagines his vibrancy muted, voice undergirded with the same loneliness that all of them have noticed in São Paulo, and it hurts to think of it. Even though it means Manny’s death, he can’t help thinking: I’m sorry we’ll leave you so alone.

  “What is he like?” Manny finds himself whispering. In the close, quiet confines of the alcove, even this carries.

  He can actually hear Paulo smile. “Arrogant. Angry. Frightened, but unwilling to let his fear restrict him.” After a moment, Paulo moves around the bed of papers, to the primary’s other side. He’s smiling down at the boy, with unmistakable fondness. “He pretends to be less special than he is, because the world has punished him for loving himself. And yet he does. He knows he’s more than whatever superficialities strangers see and dismiss.”

  Is that what the city of New York is like? Manny’s been here three days, but it feels right so far. He sighs. It’s a shame. He really wanted to make a life here.

  He looks up at Paulo. “I need the others, to touch him.”

  “Yes, I can see that. We must rely on your comrades and Hong, then.”

  Manny’s lip curls. “I’ll rely on my comrades. Hong can go to hell.”

  Paulo laughs once. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he says, to Manny’s surprise. “Before he was a city, he lived through the Opium Wars. He’s watched so many die—cities as well as ordinary people—that his attitude is understandable. If infuriating.”

  Manny frowns, trying to remember what he can of Chinese history. “Jesus, that’s… Hong is almost two hundred years old? What, are we immortal?” Unless we’re eaten.

  “No. But we live as long as our cities do, provided we don’t go picking fights with our fellow city entities.” He grimaces, putting a hand to his ribs, though he lowers it just as quickly. “Healed at last. If I were home, the bones would have knit in moments.”

  “Just other cities? The Enemy can’t harm you anymore?”

  “Oh, I imagine it can, now that it has taken this more virulent, intent form.” Paulo shakes his head. “The process has been wrong since at least New Orleans. Probably longer. Maybe now the others will finally listen, and do something—and I pray it is not too late already.”

  Something Paulo has said troubles Manny. “Have a lot of cities been killed in the process of being born?”

  “Countless numbers, over the millennia. More lately.” When Manny’s eyes narrow, Paulo half smiles and then begins rummaging in his pockets for a cigarette. “Yes, it is exactly as you think: the deaths are accelerating. I suppose that follows, if the Enemy has been weakening new cities even before they quicken. What a horrifying development.”

  “It wasn’t like that for you?”

  Finding his cigarette and lighting up, Paulo regards him over the faint orange glow before exhaling smoke. “No. There was unrest in my city, certainly. The military dictatorship that had taken over the country—most likely backed by your country’s government, thank you for that—decided to clean up the favelas by destroying them, evacuated or not. As I was from one such favela, I objected. So did São Paulo, which chose me to become its voice and champion.” Manny sees the memory warm his eyes for a moment. Then Manny recalls that the military coup Paulo just mentioned was sometime in the 1960s. Paulo looks great for a seventy- or eighty-year-old.

  “When the Enemy came,” Paulo continues, after another long, appreciative drag on his cigarette, “it tested my resolve as was traditional. I and my city met it in the rubble of a shattered marketplace, where I blew its harbingers to hell with a rocket launcher I had stolen from the soldiers.” Manny laughs, startled. Paulo so often has a genteel air—ah, but there beneath the stylish professional veneer, Manny can see a cold brutality to match his own. He strongly suspects that Paulo did his own share of hurting people, back before he became a multidimensional entity.

  Did you choose to be different? Manny wants to ask. Is that why the city claimed you for itself?

  But just as he opens his mouth, a loud clack echoes throughout the empty old station. It’s a familiar clack, Manny realizes; the same thing they heard when the subway train’s lights went out. It’s followed by more clacks, faint metallic groans, pops like sprung rivets. He’s not too troubled by the sound—some kind of electrical shutdown procedure, probably—until he realizes it’s getting louder. Speeding up, rather than slowing down: clack clack clack clack CLACK CLACK CLACK KRIIDONK.

  Silence for a moment. Then Manny hears something new and awful: a low, grindingly slow, distressed-metal screech. There is a tinkle of cracked, falling glass. He tries to think of what else that sound might be, but only one conclusion feels possible: The train is moving. With no one aboard, and while powered down. The train is moving in a way that no train is meant to move.

  Behind them. On the platform they just vacated.

  Paulo throws him a wild-eyed look. Manny knows. He must prepare a construct to channel the city’s power. Think of some quintessentially New Yorkish thing, a habit or a gesture or a symbol, then wield it as a weapon. They stand in Manhattan, upon the concrete and beneath the dirt of his own borough. Manny should be nearly invincible here.

  But as the clacks and metallic scre
eching grow deafening, and the thing that has come for the primary avatar crawls crunching and ravening up the steps, Manny finds that amid his sheer and absolute terror, his mind has gone completely blank.

  Aislyn jerks awake to the sound of shouting, right outside the house. Then the whole house shudders, as if with an earthquake.

  Startled, she fumbles first for the knife under her pillow—though Conall is not home, she knows. He and her father are out for the night, her father on shift, Conall God knows (or cares) where. Only her mother is home, and Aislyn knows from experience that on nights like this, when she is left to her own devices, Kendra Houlihan will be deep in a bottle of gin. Aislyn doesn’t know if it counts as alcoholism when you only drink yourself into a stupor once a week or so, but… well. Aislyn is effectively alone in the house.

  So she gets up. She’s in pajamas again, but this time she takes the time to put on a heavy terry cloth bathrobe, even though it’s hot. While she does this, bright light flashes outside, nearly blinding even through the curtains. Someone—a young woman, sounds like—screams in a voice that is high-pitched and revolted and more than a little hysterical. Someone else with a deeper voice shouts—rhythmically but breathlessly, like she’s reciting poetry while running—“But once on the scene / we start killing kings!” There is another of those house-jolting thuds as Aislyn finally runs out of her room, and the bright light beyond the blinds fizzles out. Something—huge and inhuman, with a voice like a high-pitched bus horn—shrieks, and the sound of this is enough to make Aislyn cry out and cover her ears as she stumbles against the wall hard enough to dislodge an old family portrait. (Her and Mom and Dad, and a teddy bear to represent Conall.)

  Sudden silence. Everything outside has gone still. Her mouth dry with fear, Aislyn hurries to the front door and eases it open.