“No!” Amarantha manages to struggle upright at last. “Run, Cadell! Get out! Get away from him!”
Cadell sits up, staring at her with wide eyes. His mouth moves silently, a plaintive cry growing in the back of his throat. But he does not move from the bed.
“Don’t you understand me?” Amarantha cries. “Run! For Koba’s sake, run!”
Cadell begins to move toward her, but the Deathsman grips him by the shoulder, effortlessly holding him in place. “Let’s not make this any more difficult than it has to be,” he says to Amarantha. “Are you certain you have nothing to say? If you do not achieve closure at this critical moment, you may regret it for the rest of your life.”
“Don’t you dare!” Amarantha screams at him. “Don’t you dare try to put this on my head, you murderer!”
The Deathsman bows his head, having made the necessary efforts. Ignoring Amarantha’s entreaties, he mechanically recites the last observances. He touches Cadell’s forehead with a single silver fingertip. Cadell sinks back into the pillows with a sigh. His tongue protrudes slightly out of his mouth. Gently, the Deathsman pushes it back in and closes the eyes. He studies Cadell’s body, then stands and turns toward Amarantha.
She looks up at him, her eyes red with tears. “When . . . when are you going to do it?”
The Deathsman’s hands rustle under his cloak. For the first time, Amarantha hears something like pity in his voice. “It is already done,” he says.
THE ORIGIN OF THE WORLD
Orel walks carefully across the cold cavern floor. He has no illusions that he can get past the Rats undetected, but he does not intend to alarm them by walking quickly or noisily. While the Rakehells were sleeping, he had crept out of the pit, with the sonar helmet tucked under his left arm.
A small Rat blocks his path: a young male. Its sparse hair dances in the weak firelight as it sniffs at him. It has the same horrible face as the others: dead white skin, weak chin, protruding incisors, and pinprick eyes — as devoid of personality as an embryo’s. Orel’s heart hammers with fear as he thrusts his right hand onto the Rat’s chest, which rises and falls beneath his fingers. Orel makes the signs for
— Let — Me — Pass. —
The Rat looks at him quizzically, then steps aside. Emboldened by his success, Orel moves on. He rounds a rise in the cavern floor, and suddenly the mass of the Rat population is before him, gathered together in one great crowd. The dung fires throw huge shadows on the stalactite curtains. The Rats move constantly past and over one another in a slow-motion orgy of casual contact.
This is what they do,
Orel reminds himself.
Touch is everything to them. It’s their whole world.
He begins to move through the crowd, letting their hands slip over him. Occasionally one will challenge him or seek to communicate, but each one steps aside when Orel makes the signs. He moves as quickly as he can, pushing through them in the direction he believes is the exit.
Now that he is among them, he sees grunting knots of younger Rats rolling together on the ground. Apparently not all the contact is casual, and the orgy is not always metaphorical.
No wonder there’s so many of them,
Orel thinks.
Beyond the crowd, to his right, Orel sees the strange, man-made shape he “saw” on his first excursion into the caves, the one the Rats were gathered around. He is close enough now to make out rusted girders, bolted together in a regular pattern. The structure reaches up to the ceiling and beyond, passing through a gigantic hole in the roof. Despite its age, the structure is sturdy and well made. Clearly this is not something the Rats could have constructed themselves; at least, not in their present state. It must be ancient, older perhaps than the Hypogeum itself.
Intrigued, Orel moves closer. The crowd is thinner here, and the Rats he passes are bigger, more muscular: the alpha males. Orel is aware that he may be entering into forbidden territory, that he may be endangering himself by moving closer to the structure, but he cannot stop. He must know what it is.
Finally he pushes past the last clump of Rats. He can see the structure clearly. Metal cables as thick as his arm hang from unguessable heights, threading through pulleys to support a great platform on which the Rats have constructed a crude shrine out of human skeletons.
Despite the decay of centuries, the metal structure’s purpose is clear: it is a huge gantry and elevator. At one time in the distant past, machinery and supplies must have entered the Hypogeum here, transported unimaginable distances from some faraway place. Here is the origin of the world. Here is the entry point of the Founders.
As Orel stands transfixed, staring up at the great machine, a Rat approaches him from the side. With a start, Orel recognizes it as the one who murdered Thraso. It is casually carrying the same stone axe, its blade still dark with Thraso’s blood.
The tall creature plants a calloused hand against Orel’s chest. Orel recognizes the signs for
— Why — You — Here? —
Moving very slowly, Orel places the sonar helmet on the ground so he will have both hands free. With trembling fingers, he returns the signs for what he hopes means,
I wish to leave. Let me go
.
The Rat squeals, pulling its thin lips back from its teeth. Orel cannot decipher what emotion this is supposed to convey.
— You — No — Go, — the Rat signs. — You — Food. —
Orel tries to translate the signs and respond as quickly as he can, knowing that if he hesitates the Rat will kill him.
— No — Food, —
he signs.
— I — One — You. —
He repeats the last sentence as emphatically as he can, pounding his palm against the Rat’s chest.
I am one of you.
The Rat regards him quizzically. Its nostrils flare, and it hisses at him, but it does not seem angry. Its hand flashes out. Orel flinches back, but the creature only touches Orel’s nose, then makes the sign for
— Bad. —
Orel’s mind races, trying to translate this new combination of signs.
Smell,
he realizes.
He’s saying I smell wrong. I don’t smell like a Rat.
In a sudden burst of inspiration, Orel signs back,
— You — Smell — Bad — Too. —
The Rat throws back its head and squeals. Its shoulders shake and its incisors gnash together. For a moment Orel fears that he has gone too far, that he has offended the creature, but then he realizes that the awful squealing is the Rat’s equivalent of laughter.
—
What — We — Do — Things? —
the Rat signs, pointing in the direction of the pit. With a chill, Orel realizes that, as a test, the Rat is asking him what should be done with the other humans. Is Orel truly a Rat as he claims to be, or is he one of those food things?
—
Things — Smell — Bad, —
Orel signs.
The Rat snuffles. This time it is not amused.
—
What — We — Do — Things, —
it repeats, slapping its hands against Orel’s chest hard enough to send him staggering backwards.
Orel realizes that there is nothing he can do. If he recommends that the humans be allowed to leave, he will expose himself as one of them, a thing to be eaten like the others. If he wants to leave the cave alive, Orel must say what a Rat would say.
—
Kill — Things, —
he signs.
— Kill — Many — Things. —
It’s worth it,
Orel tells himself, though his empty stomach is churning with revulsion.
It’s worth the sacrifice if at least one of us is able to escape. There’s no other way.
—
I — One —You, —
he signs again.
I am one of you.
THE INNOCENTS
Edward Penn stands dressed in the Winnower armor on a ledge overlooking the Hypogeum. He looks down, savoring the moment, feeling the balance of power between himself and the city before him. He takes a deep breath. The poisoned air stings his lungs and makes his head swim, but he can feel his blood rise in response, generating the chemicals needed to neutralize the toxins seeping into his veins. Adrenaline rockets through his system, infusing his muscles with unnatural strength.
His vision wavers slightly as he activates the blender. As he leaps from the roof, the augmentronics in his armor multiply the power of his muscles fivefold. He falls six stories before he grabs a narrow pipeline, using it to swing to the next roof. He descends into the labyrinth of the city.
In some places he travels alone, hidden in the service tunnels or in the spaces between the decks. Other times he dodges directly through the crowds, disturbing them only by the change of air pressure in his wake. To most people he is only random ventilator wind. To others he is a passing ghost, a premonition of death. They look around at the space he has occupied, their eyes wide with sullen fear.
Things are different on the lower decks. The dim lights turn every color gray, and each person drags a dozen shadows behind him. The air itself is heavier. As he runs, Edward can feel the ancient buildings creak and strain against one another.
He emerges from an access tunnel into the support structure above the Quad Concourse, a public area that spans Decks Nine and Ten. He is well beneath river level now, and everything is moist and slick. His boots and gauntlets slip dangerously as he makes his way across the girders. A listless crowd is packed into the narrow, twisting street below. Half of the shops on either side of the concourse are closed. The people move slowly, without purpose.
Edward crawls in front of one of the long illuminators that line the roof of the concourse. Not even the light-twisting properties of the blender can prevent him from casting a huge shadow across the crowd. The people stop and raise their heads, but he has already moved on. The red makeup framing their faces only accentuates the pallor of their cheeks, the darkness around their eyes.
Edward finally spies his quarry. Three figures move purposefully though the shifting crowd: two men flanking a smaller, dark-haired woman. The taller man directs them, his arm wrapped tightly around the shoulders of the women. She stumbles as he pushes her forward. The other man, shorter but more massive, carries a small duffel bag. Edward recognizes the bag as one of his own.
He climbs down the outside of one of the elevator shafts. The metal sheath groans under his weight, and his claws leave tiny puncture marks. He jumps among the people on the mezzanine, not caring anymore if they are aware of his presence. He sprints across a graffiti-covered causeway, pushing the people aside. The blender cannot adequately disguise him when he moves at this speed; he looks like a quicksilver statue come to life, reflecting bits and pieces of the people around him.
He leaps up and perches on the guardrail, looking over the side. The three fugitives will pass directly beneath him. He deactivates the blender. Someone screams. The people begin to hurry away from him blindly. They stumble against one another, torn by conflicting impulses of fear and curiosity.
The three figures suddenly find themselves alone. A wide space has cleared around them in the crowd. They stop and look around, confused and angry. Edward glares down at them from the transversing walkway like a white and crimson gargoyle. The people at the edges of the space, sensing that a spectacle is about to unfold, turn to watch. The crowd is very quiet. Edward remains on his perch a little longer, letting the moment draw out.
Astrid stares up at him, unconcealed fear in her eyes. The tall man — Samael — grips her tightly, one arm around her shoulders, his other hand clamped on her wrist. The glowbands on his jacket pulse rhythmically, painting his face red and green. He shouts something at Astrid, and Edward notices that his front teeth have been resculpted into long fangs. The other man, whose face is as broad as Samael’s is lean, drops the duffel bag and protracts a long wirewhip from a canister on his belt. The muscles of his thick arms tighten beneath his shirt as he tests the weapon, bending it to one side, then letting it snap back into shape.
Edward hops from his perch and drops to the cement in front of them. Though the drop is almost ten meters, he lands gracefully, his metal heels clacking against the concrete. He takes a step toward the three fugitives. He is vaguely aware that all the eyes of the crowd are on him. There is even a smattering of applause. He hears his name being whispered:
Winnower. Winnower. Winnower.
Edward and the squat man circle each other appraisingly. The wirewhip sings as the man slashes it from side to side. In the hands of a novice, a wirewhip can maim; when wielded by an expert, it can cut a man in half. Samael grips Astrid tightly and steps back. Astrid opens her mouth to speak, then shuts it, a look of anger and despair on her face. She is at the center of this conflict, but she is not truly a part of it.
The squat man is shaped like an inverted triangle, with a broad chest and long legs, and he moves with surprising speed. His wirewhip flashes forward, vibrating with a high-pitched hum as it cuts the air. Edward dodges to one side. The whip strikes the pavement with a loud
crack!
and a small explosion of chipped concrete. Edward tries to move in, but already the man has retracted the whip and sent it out again. It arcs toward him low, trying to wrap around his legs. Edward leaps forward over its path. His claws miss the man’s face by millimeters. Edward and the big man square off again, Edward staying just beyond the wirewhip’s reach, the big man reluctant to move too close and thus give Edward an opening. A shout of encouragement from the crowd distracts the man momentarily, and Edward charges forward, directly at him. The man turns and darts to one side, flashing the whip sideways, so Edward is forced to dodge around it.