Текст книги "City at the end of time"
Автор книги: Грег Бир
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 33 страниц)
Only young breeds were ever sent on the marches—grown of primordial mass, cultured in the Tiers, and afforded the best instincts, some of which would truly awaken only in the Chaos. Personally, this version of Pahtun had never ventured beyond the middle lands. If these nine made up the last march to be delivered to his expert care, he might never learn the whole truth about the Chaos and the Typhon. He showed the breeds to their tents and made sure they were comfortable. Soon, they were sound asleep.
The cohorts made their own camp nearby, away from the breeds and away from Pahtun’s solitary tent. They held the trainer in some awe—but considered him old and peculiar. After all, what was the point of all of this?
Perhaps there was no point. None of the other Pahtuns, sent into the Chaos in violation of the rulings of the Astyanax, had ever reported their discoveries. And none of the marchers he’d trained had ever returned.
CHAPTER 56
The Broken Tower
As requested, a living breed, crèche-born of primordial matter, for whatever purpose the Librarian might devise.
Ghentun stood on one side of the high, empty chamber, a dozen yards from the nearest soaring window, surrounded by a slow, enveloping shimmer. At his waist floated the young male, curled in anesthetic oblivion, injured but already healing—treated and protected by Ghentun’s cloak. The Keeper of the Tiers could only feel numb. He could not conceive of any action that would make any difference now.
Delay, decadence, conspiracies beyond counting or comprehension—the inevitable sapping of the city’s vitality in the face of millions of years of warding off the unthinkable—had brought the end closer than even he had imagined.
Upon arrival, Ghentun had circled the chamber to look down through the high windows at the Kalpa’s three remaining bions. The intrusion had severely damaged the lowest levels of the first bion, whose foundations enveloped the Tiers and from whose rounded crown rose the Broken Tower. It also wreaked tremendous destruction on the southern and the tertian bions. Both sent up dismal, spiraling plumes of silvery smoke to the limits of the inner pressure barrier. Outside the border of the real, the monstrosities drew closer, as if warming themselves on the Kalpa’s fires of destruction. The Witness’s eternally spinning beam had accelerated, and its huge mountain of solidified flesh—once human, now ageless and beyond pity—pushed in toward the Defenders, anticipating another sacrifice.
The Tiers had always attracted the strongest, most destructive intrusions. Now Ghentun wondered if one reason for this attention was floating beside him. He comprehended that since the creation of the Tiers, the Typhon had been probing the city as if with special knowledge—if such a thing could know or make plans.
He looked to the east, away from the Witness, for the last party of marchers, hoping they might leave before the final collapse, before the Typhon’s triumph.
The Librarian had dallied for millions of years. Mind beyond measure—how could Ghentun criticize or
even understand? But there had never been a plan that he could discern—certainly not one that could be explained to a Mender or a breed. He was really no better than his charges, no better than this brash, crèche-born youngster, who had persisted despite all the deceptions and intellectual barricades set in his path.
Like Menders—like Ghentun—breeds understood shame, as if their primordial stuff preserved a heritage of that ancient emotion lost to the Great Eidolons.
An angelin approached, appearing at first as a tiny speck silvering outward from the center of the chamber, then suddenly nearby—a few feet away. As before, it was female in form, pale blue, and no taller than Ghentun’s knee—but this time it seemed to prefer the appearance of walking rather than drifting about or flying.
It might be the same angelin he had spoken with before—and it might not. Identity was of little importance to this class of servants.
Ghentun nudged the breed. Jebrassy raised his head and blinked, looked around, but remained curled, as if savoring a few last moments of warmth and sanity.
“All honor to the Librarian,” the angelin sang, its voice like trickling water. “Is the experiment concluded?”
“Yes,” Ghentun replied.
“You’ve brought the requested specimen from the Tiers?”
“I have. Does the Librarian request my presence?” Ghentun asked doubtfully.
“You will accompany the young breed.”
Jebrassy pushed out his legs and slowly dropped to the bottom of the cloak, where he stood on his own, beneath the gaze of the Tall One. He turned to stare in awe at the blue form a few feet beyond, radiating deep cold despite the cloak’s protection.
Jebrassy had moved well beyond confusion or fear. Anything could happen. He almost hoped it would—all of it, just to get it over with.
Then he thought of Tiadba. He shuddered at the realization that he had just emerged from a dark sleep. But for how long? Where was she? Had she been sucked into the intrusion? Was she even alive?
Jebrassy growled and shoved his hands against the shimmer.
A small voice spoke in his ear like the high chirrup of a letterbug. “Don’t do that. It’s cold out here, and the Librarian wishes you comfort and health. Both of you will follow this silly blue form. It is my pleasure to escort you to the most wonderful place in all the Kalpa. Possibly the most wonderful place left to humans in all the cosmos.”
Jebrassy looked up at the Tall One, then back to the small blue figure, puzzled—they thought they were allhumans, despite appearances, was that the secret? He began to move his feet in a shuffle and discovered that the shimmer followed him—and so walked at a normal pace, keeping up with the naked blue image. Ghentun stayed beside him.
Not even the sweep of a knife-edged beam of gray light across the smooth roof of the chamber—like a threat of instant blindness—slowed their progress, though it made Jebrassy cringe. When they came to the center—a walk of what seemed only minutes—he looked back and studied the far curved rank of high windows and suddenly understood where they were—remembering the stories in the books.
“We’re in Malregard, aren’t we?” he asked Ghentun.
“Some once called it that,” Ghentun said. “We’re both of us far above our neighborhoods and rank, young breed. In the region of the Great Eidolons. They neither think nor act as we do.”
“But we’re allhumans,” Jebrassy said.
The Keeper touched his nose with amusement—a breed gesture.
“Watch your step,” the angelin warned. “You should close your eyes. We’re vectoring to the top of the tower—what’s left of it, of course.”
“What broke the tower?” Jebrassy asked.
Ghentun made a small, ambiguous sound. “You needn’t concern yourself with the past. There’s far too much of it. You should only look ahead. For once, the future is scaled to fit you.”
Jebrassy did not know whether to be insulted.
Silvery curves danced around them, as if they were moving, yet he saw no change. And then—they stood beneath a terrible sky, filled with hoops of flame and spinning worlds. Something looked down upon them, impossible to actually see or measure—and Jebrassy thrust his clenched fists to his eyes. He thought he was falling—that he was back with Tiadba flying over the Tiers, and the warden had let him go—
Voices sounded all around, saying nothing he could understand, and a deep booming buffeted his body. Jebrassy could not stand the thought of falling without seeing where he was going to hit. He had to know. He lowered his arms, but for a moment his eyes refused to open. He had seen too much already—something bright and multicolored, and from it great sweeps of silver rising high into an arched grayness, grasping and moving brilliant red shapes, like farmers using tongs to swing bales of chafe…
Above—below—he couldn’t tell which—thousands of white figures were arrayed in positions of restful waiting, hands clasped behind their backs. Each had two arms, two legs, and a round white head. They had no faces, no features, nothing but smooth whiteness.
He wasn’t falling. He was floating—upside down, it seemed—over an immense tangle of causeways, along which the many white figures stood in rows or moved about in astonishingly different ways. Some of the figures walked, many drifted close to the roads, a few zipped up and over the whole expanse with dizzying speed, swooping soundlessly and shedding more of those beautiful silvery curves. Still others simply vanished, and the rest, tens of thousands—in long rows that stretched off into obscurity—awaited instructions, like an enormous army of blanks.
The angelin came into view and gave Jebrassy a nudge. Even through the shimmer its touch nearly iced his toes, but he came right again with a slow rotation to face the rainbow brilliance and the tongs that reached up and out, grasping flame-colored luminosities and pulling them down.
“The Keeper has delivered a breed,” the angelin announced, its voice so sweet it made Jebrassy’s ears hurt. And then, another message—not from the Tall One nor from the blue form, and not so much a voice as a beam of words half seen in the shimmer that protected him. Let the primordial find a place where he can heal. We will meet when he is whole again and calmer. I would not wish to dismay him. He is, after all, the most important citizen in the Kalpa.Jebrassy looked up at the Tall One who stood by his side.
“So be it,” Ghentun said. “After five hundred thousand years, I have fulfilled my duty to the Eidolons.”
CHAPTER 57
Tiadba stood on the outskirts of the training camp, along the broad, flat outer reach of the channel, lost in melancholy. She could barely make out the distant shapes of the three tablelike isles where she had spent her entire life. Blocs were stacked high on each table like jumbled cards, softened and shaded by the mist that puffed from the channel floor.
As the light over the blocs dimmed, drawing those far Tiers into sleep, she turned toward the overarched blackness beyond which lay—so they had been told—the outer works of the Kalpa and the reality generators that protected them from the Chaos. Her body felt like a coiled whip about to be snapped. She was ready. Time was flowing too quickly—not quickly enough.
They were being trained. The march was on…
Just when she thought she might be able to go on without Jebrassy, might be able to stop obsessing over the paths they would never follow together…she remembered the last sight of her young breed male, dangling from the grip of the brown warden, and grief flooded back. There had been an awful noise, breath-snatching flight, painted swirls of darkness—a terrifying, inchoate presence. Tiadba had withstood all of that. The wardens had dropped nine breeds in the flood channel—so she assumed. She remembered nothing of those early moments. She did remember that they had crossed a wide plain under a darker portion of the ceil, featureless but for drifts of rock-dust. The short channel trees that clumped in the old mud had soon given way to an immense flatness, vanishing into shadow on each side. They were all close to panic, terror replacing bravado even as they neared the end of this first stage of their journey and saw the huge arches that marked the outer channel bounds.
Perhaps Jebrassy had been protected and survived as well; perhaps he was lost somewhere nearby and would wander into the camp at any moment. But she wondered how she could still believe. She doubted he was still in the Tiers. Either way, he was not with her and she longed for him. The breeds rescued from the intrusion were not entirely the mix Grayne had been planning. Denbord, Macht, Perf, and Tiadba were the only members of Grayne’s group that had made it to the channel. Nico, Shewel, and Khren had helped Tiadba and Jebrassy search for loose books in the upper Tiers—though they had found none of their own. Mash—the fourth searcher in the upper Tiers—was sucked up in the intrusion, so Pahtun said. Tiadba had liked Mash. Others in Grayne’s group also vanished, and so the substitutes had become necessary—willing or no. The two other females—Herza and Frinna—were unknown to her, kept to themselves, and said little to anyone.
Khren, the strongest, had known Jebrassy most of his life. He had trained to be a pede-runner and repairer of meadow carts—when not fighting alongside Jebrassy in the little wars.
“I’d have never joined a march, and they’d have never picked me—so it’s even,” Khren said in camp.
“Going out there might be better than kicking pedes and mounting wheels—or it might not. They just better not get too swift with me, that’s all I’m saying.”
“They” were the five Tall Ones who had guided them along the channel to this camp, and in particular the trainer, an experienced-looking Mender named Pahtun. They were all learning more about Tall Ones than they had ever imagined possible. Tall Ones were divided into two types, it seemed: Shapers and Menders. Shapers were rare and never seen. All the escorts were Menders. Esolonico—Nico for short—and Shewel were shop-breeds, loaders and stackers learning to run market stalls; common types, though Nico fancied himself an expert on hidden wisdom. Tiadba doubted Grayne would have agreed.
Denbord had been senior to her in Grayne’s group, but seemed unsure about that now, since she carried the book bag, and Grayne had not sent him on his own search. He was a slender, thoughtful type, just the opposite of Jebrassy.
Their small camp had rudimentary facilities—six tents of translucent fabric open at both ends, and inside, flat sleeping pads. One remained empty—two males each filled three tents, and Tiadba had a tent to herself.
Frinna and Herza were pale, quiet types from the lower Tiers on the second isle—what Tiadba’s mer and per would have called cart-glows, or worse, dims. Tiadba herself felt no discomfort at their stolid quiet, yet she was certain—again—that Grayne would never have picked them. None of them had dreams or visitors.
A few dozen yards beyond the tents stood a large round hut, silvery and hard, in which the trainers kept the tools and armor the marchers would use on their journey. Few provisions had been made for comfort or privacy, though fresh produce was delivered daily from the meadows.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Pahtun remarked. “Out there, no more eating or drinking. You certainly can’t live off the land. Your armor will nourish you.”
Twelve wakes and twelve sleeps passed mostly in vigorous exercise—for stamina and strength—and walking around the dust-drifted channel floor, barely better than sulking in their tents or fidgeting and scrapping.
Pahtun seemed older than the other four. Khren thought Tall Ones could look as old as they wished; didn’t they all live forever? Nico doubted that. Since none of the breeds felt brave enough to ask, Tiadba assumed that Pahtun was the oldest because he moved with deliberation, spoke clearly, and used breed terms all could understand, as if he had dealt with their kind many times before. Despite the late and forcible recruiting, only three voiced any inclination to leave. One came from Grayne’s group: Perf, a gangling, clumsy breed in middle youth who was miserable away from his niche and let everyone know it.
During one sleep, Herza and Frinna tried to sneak off but were retrieved. They did not try again. After that, Perf didn’t even try.
CHAPTER 58
The Broken Tower
A warm shadow drifted over Jebrassy as he lay in the small room, so very like his sponsors’ niche in the Tiers. He felt as if he were being weighed and measured—in ways he could not understand, but deep and fundamental.
The exam was painless but he did not like it. “What’s happening?” he asked. No answer. Instead, the measurement seemed to change focus, moving up and out, and found him. His thinking self.
“What are you doing?”
The warm shadow expressed satisfaction. Then a voice sounded, so pleasant and familiar he was sure he’d heard it before—but couldn’t remember who it might be.
“Do you know what’s happened to you?”
“I’ve been brought to the Broken Tower.”
“Do you know why?”
“We’re too stupid and weak to be told such things.”
The voice became more immediate. “On the contrary, you’ve done well. You’re probably the strongest creatures in the Kalpa. Certainly the most important, now that my work is almost done.”
“You’re the Librarian?”
“Part of him—a part that has managed to keep some level of sanity over this half of eternity. Do you know about Eidolons?”
“No.”
“Well, no matter. The Librarian has become a Great Eidolon, which means he can no longer understand what it means to be small and insignificant. So he sets apart a few of his many selves, called ‘epitomes,’
and they fulfill that function. You’re talking to one now.”
“You’re not cold, like those blue things.”
“I am closer to the core of the Librarian. What you tell and show me, the Librarian knows immediately.”
“I’d like to see you.”
“Soon. But understand, anything you see will be an illusion, so even if you couldsee me, you wouldn’t strike out, despite your clenched fists. Like hitting a shadow, it would bring you no satisfaction.”
Jebrassy tried to relax his hands. “What’s going to happen?”
“In time, you will be set free to perform your duty. But for now we need to understand what you have become. You ring like a bell, young breed—a bell that no one in this time has tolled. Your vibrations are important. But for the moment, only half of you is in my presence in any way I can measure. The other half has to become manifest—events have to catch up. Until then, we will get acquainted, and I will teach you some useful things.”
“Where is Tiadba? Is she here, or somewhere else?”
“It interests me that you already know the answer to those questions. She is not here in the tower. She was not taken back to the Tiers. Where do you think she is?”
Jebrassy hated being played with, but he didknow. “She’s in the flood channel, with the others. The marchers. I need to go to her.”
“You would do her little good. As I said, events have to catch up. You must reach your full potential, young breed—and then you will be ready to join your friends.”
CHAPTER 59
The Flood Channel
Pahtun gathered the nine breeds on the channel floor, beneath the looming double arch, and stood before them, solemnly gazing at each in turn. The trainer was at least a third again as tall as Khren, their largest.
“You are chosen because your blood urges you outward,” he began, his voice deep and sad. “But whatever your enthusiasm, you will need help in your travels and a tempering to your urges. You are inexperienced, no doubt brave, but for now—foolish.”
Perf squirmed on the sand, as if afraid everyone would look at him.
“Out there, no warden will carry you gently home if you get hurt. Out there, more than pain—worse than death. That is what the Chaos promises. Beyond the border of the real lies the greatest challenge ever faced by human beings—and in that grouping, I include even the Great Eidolons on high, damn their arrogance.”
Pahtun looked around as if this might shock them, but these breeds knew nothing of Eidolons, great or small.
He waved his long-fingered hand, and Tiadba noticed that on the tip of his sixth finger—he had six fingers and an odd thumb, mounted in the center of his palm—there was a pink flower. Patient observation, as Pahtun spoke and waved this hand some more, rewarded her with the realization that this flower was in fact a cluster of six smaller fingers—perhaps used in delicate tasks. (Though Nico later suggested they helped the Tall Ones clean their ears.)
“No one can know what you will see and experience. While there are features that are relatively fixed and can be described, even partly explained, most of what is out there is great changewith no reasonor law.Accept it. The danger is constant. Your training will never suffice. But it will have to do, for between the will of those who will things,” he pointed over his head and back a bit, high above the three isles, “and your own blood instinct, planted in you and nurtured—bravery without sense,” he took a deep breath, “you aregoing. You aretraveling. You willmarch. You have no choice. Wehave no choice.”
Tiadba spoke aloud an odd word: “Amen.” The others responded likewise, then looked at each other, dismayed.
“So, let me introduce you to the tools that might keep body and soul together out in the Chaos.” Pahtun sounded a humming, whistling note, and they stood.
The escorts guided the breeds into the silvery dome-shed.
Glistening and strange, suits hung from the walls of the shed like the casings of farm pedes, though more colorful. Of a size and shape to fit each marcher, they were shades of orange, red, blue, green, and yellow—which seemed strange if one wished to hide from things that hunted.
“These are the best that the Shapers of the Kalpa have ever been able to manufacture. Here, the generators of the city protect us—and in the Chaos, your armor will protect you, up to a point. Within these shells, the suits sustain the laws and principles that allow life, and they carry personalities as well—as one would expect from the Shapers who made them.”
“What are Shapers?” Nico asked.
“Like me,” Pahtun said, “only different. I’ve never seen one.” He did not elaborate. The trainer introduced the breeds to their suits and suggested they try them on. Tiadba knew immediately which was hers. She stroked its outer shell—smooth, orange, and cool. The armor vibrated beneath her fingers and made a small, accepting noise.
Grayne had told them a little about such things, but she had not mentioned that the armor clambered over one’s limbs and trunk with a life of its own. The suits practically put themselves on as the breeds danced and squirmed. Herza and Frinna tried to pull free and failed. Those who finished first expressed nervous amusement at the expressions of their fellows.
The helmets fell limp over their shoulders like split hoods until, at Pahtun’s command, they rose up, stiffened, and sealed airtight. Yet from within, Tiadba felt no oppressive closeness. Her breath came easily and the air seemed fresh. She felt only a slight itching at the joints, which she soon learned to ignore.
