Aestival Tide (9 page)

“Oh,” said Hobi.

Goose bumps pricked his arms and he shivered. On the upper levels it was always the same temperature, unless you were at one of Âziz's weather parties. Hobi squinted, trying to see where Nasrani waited; finally made him out more by his smell (cardamom-water and snuff) than sight.

“Damn,” the boy whispered. He stepped forward cautiously, waving his hands in front of him. His eyes must be getting used to the darkness. He could see faint flickerings of red and orange that made the shadows of things, Nasrani for instance, loom even larger and more forbidding than what they portended. “Nasrani?” he called anxiously.

The exile was bent over one leg, pulling something from his boot. “Just a minute—” he cried, and turned to the boy.

A beam of light sliced through the air, blinding Hobi. He shouted and fell; then cringing waited for the exile to strike. When he dared lift his head he saw Nasrani standing in front of him, adjusting the levels on a lumiere.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nasrani muttered. “Had it all the way up. I always do that here. You expect it to be dark but forget that a little goes a long way. By little I mean
light,
of course.” The exile waved the lumiere impatiently, its beam now narrowed to the breadth of a finger. “Come on then. Mind the crocodiles.”

Hobi stumbled to his feet, glancing around nervously. “Crocodiles?”

The exile said nothing. Hobi followed him, hoping that by
crocodiles
Nasrani referred to the ground beneath their feet, which was waffled and beslimed as some great cracked reptilian skin. More than once he stumbled, or teetered swearing on one foot when the ground seemed to give way beneath him. The lumiere served only to point out bits of things—a glittering eye, for instance, that disappeared when Hobi stopped to stare more closely. When he turned back Nasrani and his lumiere were nearly out of sight. The boy hurried after him.

They seemed to be groping down an alley. It stank of sewers and something else, a strange grubby smell. Could it be
mud?
Hobi paused long enough to stoop and let his fingers touch the ground. It felt soft and damp, and gave way to the pressure of his hand. Maybe the rumors were true, and the Undercity really was the site of the original city, and he was walking on real dirt. The thought made his stomach churn. He shuddered and started walking again.

“Keep close to me here, Hobi.” The exile stopped. He grabbed Hobi by the shoulder and drew him close. Then very slowly Nasrani stepped forward, Hobi trying not to trip beside him. The alley ended abruptly. They took a step down, and another; and then the exile pointed upward.

“There it is,” he said.

Hobi gasped. Above them reared the immense ziggurat that was Araboth. Level after level after level it soared, so far above them that the periwinkle lights of Cherubim and Seraphim twinkled faint as stars and the fires of the refineries could be seen only as fingers of scarlet and gold clawing at the darkness. Gazing upon it like this a horrible feeling took hold of the boy: as though the city were alive and he crouched beneath it, his only hope of survival that the behemoth did not see him there.

“The Holy City of the Americas.” Next to him the exile's voice rang coldly. Hobi wanted to cry out, beg him to keep silent lest he draw attention to them; but Nasrani went on, his tone bitter, almost cruel. “
Araboth
is what the ancients called Seventh Heaven, the city of god. Did you know that, Hobi? But of course you wouldn't. That is why the Prophets named each level after one of the Divine Choirs. So here you are, looking upon the celestial city. Beautiful, isn't it?”

He laughed, a miserable sound, and swept his arms out. The lumiere's beam lanced through the blackness until it was swallowed by the void. Hobi opened his mouth but could say nothing, only stare dumbly at the awful vision before him. With a last bitter laugh, Nasrani cried,

“When all the world dissolves,

And every creature shall be purified,

All places shall be hell that is not Heaven.”

Then he stepped forward once more, and Hobi had no choice but to follow.

He walked with his hands held out protectively in front of him, batting at the empty air. They seemed to be walking on the ruins of an ancient avenue. The shadows of crumbling buildings stood to either side, and openings that might be other roads leading into the darkness. There was a heavy stench hanging about it all, a smell that reminded Hobi of the scent that seeped in through the filters, the smell of the sea. But this was stronger, and there was in it too the rank odor of decay, of stagnant water and mildew.

Occasionally sounds echoed down from very high overhead, shrill noises and explosions from the refineries, and what sounded like chanting. From the shadows of the decaying buildings Hobi sometimes heard noises—a sort of slithering sound, like something being dragged across the ground, and once a murmuring like voices. But he saw nothing clearly, only occasional jots of gold, like candlelight reflected from a glass of claret.

“Sorry to bring you around this way,” Nasrani called to him. His voice once more held its accustomed note of playful irony. He seemed familiar with the way. At least he did not stagger and trip against things the way Hobi did, or swear except very softly when something snagged his greatcoat. It seemed they had been walking for a long time now, an hour maybe.

Hobi's fear faded to a faint though constant anxiety. Finally he took a deep breath and said, “Um, Nasrani—this is—would you mind telling me—”

“What?” The exile turned, the lumiere showing his frown. “Did you say—”

Suddenly the man shouted and fell to his knees. With a cry Hobi reached to help him.

“Nasrani! What is it—”

“I don't know!” He clutched Hobi's hand and stood, brushing himself off, and retrieved the lumiere. “There—can you see anything there?”

He pointed the light at the ground. Hobi squinted, shaking his head. Nasrani pushed him forward a little, until Hobi felt the ground give way beneath him. He yelled and lurched against Nasrani.

“It's a
hole!
”

His heart pounded so that he gasped for breath. The thought of a hole down here, where it could plunge into the very core of the earth itself! And Nasrani had nearly pushed him into it! Hobi turned, his voice rising as he swore furiously, but Nasrani only grabbed his arm and shook him hard.

“I wouldn't have let you fall, Hobi—but it's there, right? You felt it too?”

Hobi yanked his arm free. He caught his breath, nodding. “Ye-es. There's a hole there—what's that mean?”

Nasrani's voice echoed as he inched forward. Hobi could hear him shuffling carefully to the left. “Here—” he called after a minute. “Come this way, but be careful—”

Hobi edged after him, hugging his arms to his shoulders. He heard loose stones or dirt rattle under his feet and then fall away, the sound abruptly silenced.

“Oh, god,” Hobi muttered; but then Nasrani was gripping his arm and pulling him gently forward, until he felt more solid footing. He fell forward, his hands smacking against a wall as he gasped in relief.

“What does it mean?”

The exile's voice came very close to Hobi's face. The boy started, still trying to catch his breath. Something clinked; the lumiere cast its feeble light upon a handful of keys. Nasrani picked out one and held it up to the light. He said, “It means there is a fissure here that was not here yesterday.”

“What?” Hobi shook his head. “A fissure, what do you mean, a fissure?”

“A fissure. A hole, a rift. A break in the earth. Now.”

He raised the lumiere so Hobi could see that they stood in a recessed doorway. The brick walls gleamed damply. Tendrils hung from the corners of the ceiling. When Hobi touched them they felt wet and pulpy, and his fingers smelled of rotting fish.

“I don't understand,” the boy said uneasily, wiping his hand on his trousers.

“It used to happen Outside.” Nasrani rattled a doorknob. “Earthquakes. The ground would open up. Not here—I mean not in this part of the continent. I don't understand it, there shouldn't be any threat of earthquakes here. A gap like that could breach the integrity of the whole foundation….”

Breach.
Hobi went cold.

His father. The Architects.
A breach in the fundus of Angels.

“…have to ask your father if he knows anything about this. Watch that fungus there.” Hobi jumped as the exile poked him. There was a loud click. “Ah, here we are—”

A gust of musty air rushed out to choke them. “Come now.” Nasrani coughed, pulling at Hobi's sleeve. Behind them the door slid shut with a sucking noise. They stood in total darkness, except for the lumiere's tiny glow.

“Wait here,” commanded Nasrani.

“What—” Hobi stammered, but the exile had already crossed the room. From the darkness came a faint ticking, a soft hum as of machinery. Hobi's heart throbbed painfully. He thought he might faint.

From across the emptiness came a
flltt!
A candle flared into life, so bright and sudden that he gasped. Then another, and another, until the room was ringed with light. Hobi raised his arm, shielding his eyes. Across the walls Nasrani's goblin shadow leaped and crouched. Hobi stepped forward, amazed.

“What
is
this place?” he whispered.

All around the circumference of the room were cabinets. Small ones that barely came to Hobi's knees. Tall ones that towered above him. Cases that covered an entire wall, and some so small they must have been designed for ornamental value alone. In front of a metal cabinet stood the exile, the split tails of his greatcoat curling behind him like wings. In his hand flickered a candelabrum, so encrusted with yellow wax it resembled some bizarre plant. He raised it, pointing to where a long banner draped the wall.

“Witness the wonders of the ancients,” Nasrani said dryly.

Hobi walked until he stood beneath the banner. Across it spilled crude, luridly painted letters:

Hobi glanced at Nasrani, then at the banner again. Ragged and charred at the edges, its colors had faded—blue to a pale shade that was almost white; red to a bloody smear; green to a pallor that reminded Hobi of the strings of moldy stuff hanging from the door outside. The corners of the banner had frayed and then been painstakingly repaired with heavy black thread that tore through the fragile cloth like a razor. It looked to be several hundred years old.

SEE! THE TITANIUM CHILDREN!

MAXIMILLIAN UR: THE BANE OF SHEIKS!

THE ANODYNE PHYSICIAN: HER SIGHT ALONE WILL HEAL YOU!

MOGHREBI: PRINCESS OF THE SANDS!

WISE APULIEUS: WILL HE MAKE AN ASS OUTOF
YOU?

NEFERTITY: THE BEAUTIFUL ONE IS
HERE!

Beneath the names was a badly drawn picture of a woman's head. She stared straight out at Hobi with large tilted eyes, a cool gaze that was all the more unsettling for the crudeness of its execution. Hobi stared back at her, then crossed the room to join Nasrani where he stood in front of a tall steel cabinet.

It held a woman; at least he
thought
it was a woman. She stood behind the glass, regally tall, skin black as oil, eyes closed and mouth in a tight grimacing smile. Looking at her Hobi felt distinctly queasy. He was certain she was dead.

“She is only sleeping,” whispered Nasrani, as though he read his thoughts. The boy jumped. Nasrani held up his candelabrum so that its wavering light cascaded across the glass in ripples of black and yellow. “Second Ascension. Very rare.” He scraped a bit of wax from the case, shaking his head. “Be careful around her. She is very sensitive to noise and light.”

Hobi gaped. “She's alive? Who is she?”

Nasrani made a small
pfff
of disdain. “Alive? Of course she's alive. I told you, she is sleeping. They are all sleeping.”

He swept his arm in an arc, waves of light trailing the candelabrum and bouncing from the other cases. He gestured at each one as he intoned their names.

“Moghrebi, the Blackamoor Princess. The Skeptic Apulieus. Maximillian Ur, the Bladed Nemesis. The Titanium Children, Jackie and Jane. And Nefertity: The Beautiful One Is Here.”

Hobi looked around the room nervously. “She is?”

Nasrani tilted his head, annoyed. “Her
name.
That's her name. Nefertity: The Beautiful One Is Here.” He gestured impatiently toward a case at the far end of the room, then said, “I found them when I was—exploring—down here, many years ago. There was a tunnel, the remains of a sewage system.

“It led—well, never mind where it led. I followed it, and eventually I found them, just sprawled everywhere, totally neglected. No sign that humans or Architects had been there in ages. Nothing but abandoned buildings, rusting machinery—
such
machines, Hobi! Giant wheels, immersible booths, elevated transways—they were rotting amid the ruins of a
funfair
! Obviously the idiots who had found them had no idea what they were—they must have discovered some forgotten cache of an earlier Ascension and thought they had god's own amusement arcade.” Patting the outside of the metal cabinet he added, “Moghrebi here was designed as an intelligence unit for the Thirty Wars in the East. But
they
were using her for”—he spat the words—“fortune-telling!”

Within her glass case Moghrebi remained motionless. Hobi stared at her, trying to focus despite the flickering light and shadows, trying to see if she was breathing. After a full minute he was certain she was not.

“She's a replicant,” he said at last.

Nasrani looked at him as though he were mad. “Android,” he snapped. He turned and stalked across the room. Hobi trailed after him, chagrined.

When he reached the far wall, Nasrani put down his candelabrum and crouched to inspect a tiny cabinet. Hobi heard a soft
click;
then a figure no bigger than his hand somersaulted out, to straighten and stand at Nasrani's feet.