Authors: Elizabeth Hand
“
Where is my daughter
?”
A nearly imperceptible shifting among the acolytes on the dais. Trevor Mallory bowed his head and stared at the floor. Metatron’s emerald eyes flashed, and he started to raise his hand, as though to point out at the massed throng of geneslaves. But before he could do so, there was a sharp cry from somewhere behind the stage. The hooded acolytes looked around, alarmed. A murmur passed through the crowd, as people and geneslaves murmured and shuffled, striving to see what was happening. On the dais Luther Burdock stood with his hands clenched at his sides, and stared accusingly at Trevor Mallory. Behind him Metatron turned, slowly as though pulled by wires. His torso glowed a brilliant angry purple.
“
Daddy
!”
Up the steps leading to the dais a figure ran: taller than any human girl, but with a girl’s voice and a girl’s sweet smile. An energumen, identical to all the others in that place save only that she had no uniform, and her voice, if anything, was purer, more childlike than that of her cloned siblings. She wore nothing save a loose short linen skirt that hiked above her knees. Her skin was tawny brown and she wore her hair long and in loose curls. Smooth white scar tissue marked where one breast had been. Tears streamed from her huge black eyes as she ran to where Luther Burdock stood with his back to her. She towered above the cowled acolytes, pushing them aside. “Daddy, it’s me!”
Luther Burdock whirled about. At first his gaze swept across the cavern, but then he stopped and looked anxiously back and forth, as though searching for someone shorter than himself. “Cybele?” he called, then cried out more desperately, “Kalamat?
Cybele”?
“Father—”
And looking up he saw her: a grotesquely tall scarred figure, arms outstretched, her ecstatic voice ringing throughout the cavern. For an instant his expression was one of joyous disbelief. Then, like petals falling from a faded blossom his joy fell away, and there was only disbelief and horror.
“
No
!” He fell back as she lunged to embrace him.
“Daddy!”
She had nearly fallen herself as she grabbed him. For a moment he struggled in her arms, his white face twisted with loathing; but then he stopped. I could see another expression trembling there, another kind of disbelief, but tempered with wonder and not fear. Above him the energumen looked huge, a giantess toying with a man. But her face was tender, and glowed with delight as her huge hand cupped his face and she gazed down at him with an expression of transcendent joy. And suddenly it seemed that he recognized her, recognized
something.
A soft cry escaped him, a word I couldn’t understand. Slowly he opened his arms to her embrace.
“Stop her!
Save him
!”
The shriek came from Metatron. Violet lightning shimmered as his hand sliced through the air and he pushed one of the acolytes forward. The man moved slowly, as though frightened and unsure what to do. But then, as though the replicant’s will moved him, he suddenly darted across the stage. I glimpsed a silvery dart at the energumen’s breast, something flashing at her throat like a feeding hummingbird. Luther Burdock shouted, tried to stand and push away the other man, but the energumen held him too tightly. She seemed not to notice her attacker at all. A last stab of argent light; then she threw her head back, staring at the shadows high high above. Her great hands fell loosely from Luther Burdock. As slowly as though she lay down to sleep, she drooped back upon the floor.
Burdock stared at her, then savagely pushed the other man aside. He knelt beside her, pulling the huge head into his lap and leaning over her so that his tears fell onto her face.
“Kalamat.”
His head bowed as he called to her, his hands stroking back the tangled curls from her forehead. She moved, and I could see how she smiled, how she tried to lift her hand to graze his cheek. “Oh, daughter,” he moaned, and bent closer. Her eyes closed, though she still smiled, a child falling into a long, sweet sleep. Suddenly she cried out. Her back arched violently. One of her hands moved as though to grasp his, dropped with a soft thump to the floor; and the great figure was still.
For a moment all was silent. Then Metatron shouted a command. Several energumens loped up to the platform and dragged her body out of sight. Behind them Luther Burdock screamed and fought, as Trevor Mallory and another energumen restrained him. The other white-clad figures remained beside the six silver caskets, quiet as ever, though from the way they turned and looked from one to another, I imagined they were as dismayed by this turn of events as those watching them. All around us I could hear whispers and growls, and from the energumens scattered angry shouts. But then Metatron stepped forward and cried out, “It is a sacrifice, that is all—another sacrifice!” He turned to Trevor Mallory and hissed, “Now—do it
now
.”
Trevor moved back, so that only the other energumen held Luther Burdock’s struggling form. Burdock’s glasses had come off, and his faded blue uniform was stained with blood. He kicked fiercely at his captor and spat at Trevor Mallory.
“You let them kill her! You did that, you and the others—you ruined them all—how could you, how
could
you?—”
Trevor stared at him, his eyes round and empty. Next to him stood the acolyte who had killed the energumen. His hand still held a red-slicked knife. As I watched he took a quick step forward and plunged it into Luther Burdock’s breast. With one fluid motion he stepped back, as though he had performed a task he had long rehearsed.
I cried out, aghast, and Jane beside me. But all around us we heard nothing. Luther Burdock’s hand slapped against his chest, gripped the handle of the knife. His fingers tried to close about it, then splayed open as he sank to the floor. Blood spread across his white shirt. His head tipped backward, so that he seemed to stare up to where the full moon hung like a huge calm face above the cavern. In a moment he was dead.
Metatron stepped across the platform. When he reached the corpse, he stared at it with impassive emerald eyes. Trevor Mallory glanced down as well, but his face was contorted with anguish. He quickly turned away, gazing at the acolytes still waiting patiently beside the remaining capsules. He made a sharp slashing motion with one hand and barked out an order.
At the signal the acolytes bowed over their silver caskets. They rumbled with unseen clasps, slowly pulled at the lids until each was open. Clear liquid streamed from the metal, pooling on the floor and staining the hems of the acolytes’ robes. My stomach churned and I fought to keep from running. I did not want to see what those caskets held.
At the steel rim of first one and then another, hands appeared, fingers grabbing at the metal and clutching frantically, slipping on the wet surface. As before, they rose awkwardly from their resting places, liquid streaming from their shoulders and torsos so that they glowed in the moonlight like quicksilver.
“Jesus,” breathed Jane. “It’s
him
again.”
It was Luther Burdock.
Six
Luther Burdocks, each one naked and shivering, all shaking their heads and looking around with the same blank infant’s gaze. As they stumbled from their cells, they were helped by the acolytes, who wrapped them in stained blue tunics and wiped their faces with the hems of their own robes. When they had finished, the white figures stepped back, turning to where Metatron watched with a small smile.
“Very good,” he said at last. “You may go now and ready yourselves for departure.”
The twelve acolytes filed from the platform. Last of all went Trevor Mallory. When he passed Metatron, he stopped and looked at the replicant with burning eyes. Metatron met his gaze coldly.
“Well?” he asked. I waited for Trevor to say something, to shout or strike the inhuman figure standing there; to show some of the rage and brilliance I had known in Trevor Mallory. But that man, it seemed, had died at Seven Chimneys. After a moment he lowered his head and shuffled after the others.
Now only Metatron and Luther Burdock’s clones remained, six pallid men blinking and abashed in the moonlight. I cannot explain to you how horrible it was to see them, how they made my flesh crawl until I wanted to do as that acolyte had done and murder each of them with my own hands. They were so alike, so new and utterly unformed, with adult faces and bodies and expressions that were not so much innocent as mindless, so many empty vessels waiting to be filled.
Metatron stepped forward. He tilted his head, regarding them coolly. For the first time in many minutes he turned his unblinking gaze upon the throng assembled in the cavern.
“We are ready now,” he cried. He swept his arms out to indicate first the clones of the ancient geneticist, and then the rows of watching energumens. “We have the wisdom of Luther Burdock, the strength and numbers of his children, and enough of humanity to serve us all. Across the globe our brothers and sisters are set to join us as we harvest what remains of this poisoned earth and leave it to be burned clean. Let the avenging star come: we are ready to flee this world and find another!”
The cavern erupted into cheering and shrieking howls. I pulled Jane to me and held her close as the floor beneath us shook and overhead the stalactites trembled.
“I will lead you,” cried Metatron. “I will lead you in this last holy war, and I will have as navigator the mightiest of our Enemy’s warriors—”
His voice shook as he raised his hands and turned. And that was when I saw him, borne forth by two energumens as though he were a man in flames, his face and body destroyed and encased in scarlet metal. Only his eyes remained to betray who and what he had been: the Ascendant’s greatest hero, the Aviator Imperator Margalis Tast’annin.
“
No!
” His voice rang out, louder even than Metatron’s. My own voice echoed his disbelief. On the platform the six men who were Luther Burdock looked around uneasily. “
Let us go!
”
Metatron only smiled at the Aviator’s fury, and looked past him to where two other figures stood at the edge of the platform. One struggled within her energumen captor’s grip—another Aviator, her face bruised and bleeding but her eyes aflame with hatred. But the other figure stood quite calmly, between two energumens who kept back from her as though afraid. When I saw her, I gasped, because her form was identical to that of Metatron, only encased in shining silver and blue and gold instead of violet and black. And as though she had heard me, she turned, seeming to search through the crowd until her eyes caught mine. Eyes as green and lambent as Metatron’s own; but where his held malice and cunning, hers were mild, seemingly unperturbed by all the chaos around her. Foolishly, I started to speak, as though she might hear me. Indeed, from the way she tilted her head, it seemed she did. But then Metatron’s voice cut through the air, and she turned away again.
“Take him to the elÿon
Izanagi
and install him as its adjutant.” Metatron pointed at the energumen who held Tast’annin. “Since he was careless enough to kill its navigator, he shall act as mine, and guide us to the stars.”
Tast’annin howled again, but his voice was lost amid the clamor. He fought to turn his head, looking desperately through the crowd; and then his gaze pierced mine. Jane gasped and try to pull me back, but I did not move, only stared at him.
It seemed that the roaring around me grew still. In all that vast space there was only myself and that crimson figure. Of his human visage nothing but a tormented metal mask remained. His eyes were so pale, it seemed all color had fled from them at sight of things more terrible than I could imagine. But what was most frightening was the expression in those eyes. I had seen them to hold only rage and lust to power. But now they gazed upon me pleadingly and with a desperation so awful, I nearly wept. It seemed I heard his voice again, as I had heard it in the Engulfed Cathedral, telling me, “
Even I must serve something
…”
It was as though he heard my thoughts. The silence was riven by a great roar as he threw his head back and shouted, “
I will not serve you, Metatron! I will not serve!
”
Metatron laughed. “You have no choice, Tast’annin. None of us have any choice. We all serve a greater master now—”
He pointed at the sky. A few bats still skimmed across the entrance to the cave, flecks of black skating across the moon’s weary face. On the platform the pale blue-robed figures of Luther Burdock looked up, as did everyone around me. It seemed that the moon grew paler; that it faded until it was little more than a blurred cloud floating in endless darkness. For a moment it was as though we stared into some terrible colorless dawn. And then I saw what it was that drove the moon from her rightful place.
At the edge of the sky a radiance appeared, a brilliance that was not white but tinged with blue and red and violet and yellow, like a shattered rainbow hurled into the night. It grew brighter, and brighter still, until I shaded my eyes with my hands and gasped, my voice lost amid a thousand others.
“Behold Icarus!” cried Metatron. “My son in his glory, the burning boy! He comes, he comes. Within weeks he will be here, and the mutilated Earth at last will be freed from its suffering!”
Within the blinding light that filled the sky a point of black appeared, a small ragged core of darkness like an eye or mouth. It did not move or grow larger; only seemed to pulse slightly, like a heart beating within the void of heaven.
“This is
crazy
!” Jane yelled. Fear and anger tore at her face; anger won, and she pounded her thigh with her fist. “I thought the Aviator was mad, but this—” She grabbed me and began to pull me through the crowd. No one stopped us now; no one noticed us at all. “Come
on,
Wendy, this is—”
I yanked back from her. “We can’t go,” I said numbly. My eyes remained fixed on the deathly radiance above us. “Don’t you see what that is? Metatron is right—it’s some kind of falling star—where can we go?”
And in answer I felt huge hands close around my arms, and saw Jane fall back into the grip of another energumen.