Ezeki nodded. “We can go this morning, as soon as possible. The city was peaceful last night-you might say it slept well. Most cities are restless even when they’ve been settled for a long while.”
“Some say they have bad dreams,” Durragon offered, looking closely at Ezeki. “Do you think they dream, old man?”
He shook his head. “Not of good times. They dream of our manifold sins, General, which so disgusted them they vomited us.”
“Then what we plan is like raping a woman who refuses us, eh? Noble plan, I think.” Durragon stood and Nebeki brought forward his light armor. When he was suited, Durragon motioned for the runner to leave the tent. “Are you still religious, old man?” he asked. The Habiru shrugged.
“No righteous God would let one like you—or a traitor such as I—live very long. Most of our religion lies buried in cities that won’t let us see it any more. We did not take our books with us when we were exiled, General. No Talmud, only a few copies of the Pentateuch, the Histories of Earth. One batch of tapes. Nothing else. Most of those are gone now, or we don’t have the machines to read them.”
“Ah, to retrieve the knowledge! The information that would let us live as our ancestors did—travelling from star to star, doing things any man today would call sorcery. My religion is man behaving like God. What is yours?”
The old man didn’t answer.
“Sometimes I talk to gods in my sleep, auditioning them one by one. ‘Come talk, present yourselves!’ I say, and watch them stalk past, shadowy, answering me sometimes with my own voice, sometimes with the voice of somebody very like me, but buried deep inside. Never with their own voices. Makes me think all gods must be toadies and servants. Must have been different at one time, eh? Before burning bushes and voices out of mountains became everyday things, and humans took charge.”
“Lots of leaders have imagined themselves gods,” Ezeki said. “It’s a dangerous conceit. Someone might believe you.”
“I’m no god; don’t ever intend to be one,” Durragon said. “No god would put up with troops like the Chasers, and without my troops, what am I? No better than you—perhaps worse. You know why I’m called the Apostate, old man?”
Ezeki stared straight ahead.
“Because I once trained to be a rab. What do you think of that? I was young, but devout. Then I decided the creed of the Catholic was more attractive. Then I joined a group which worshipped a very dark, ugly sort of goddess. None of them satisfied me. From rab to pagan, and then to agnostic.”
The old man produced one of his rare smiles.
“You like my revelations, huh?” Durragon asked. “Rare shafts of light between dark curtains. Yes, I know what you think of me. Your hatred invigorates me. We certainly won’t grow old together, not when our goals are so far apart. Go and look over Breetod’s volunteers. Don’t tell Belshezar what I plan until I’m there to see his face.”
The city was quiet in the dawn. Mist rose around its base and layers of thin clouds drifted past its upper towers, touching the walls with dew. The morning fires in the camp spread like a carpet of orange stars under the haze. Reah stood on the balcony with the insect lightly clutching her shoulder, the coat-rack behind her and the box at her feet.
“If the city lets any of them in, are there other parts which will obey me and throw them out again?”
The coat-rack didn’t answer. The insect shustled its green clockwork body. She reached up to touch its crystalline head, but it flinched under her fingers. “I may explain,” the coat-rack said. “The religious coordinator now wishes to treat those in need—”
“They only want in,” Reah said.
“We have been watching them, and they behave like other Chasers, though there are more of them.”
“They’re organized. They burned my town, and they’ll destroy this one if they can.”
“Many city parts are no longer under control of the architect. Still others—such as defense and medical services—are automatic and cannot be directed by any existing central authority.”
“Not even myself?”
The coat-rack considered. “I think not.”
“Not even with your help?”
“If these Chasers are actually dangerous to the city—”
“They are.”
“But the only way they can get in is to be wounded or disabled.”
“They’ll hurt themselves deliberately just to get a few inside—and then they’ll kill the city.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s obvious. They must have captured the others.”
The insect was restless. Reah shrugged her shoulder in irritation and it flew away, winding around several buttresses in its flight to the interior.
“Why is the city dying?” she asked. The coat-rack hummed a lowering note but didn’t answer. She asked her question again.
“The city no longer picks proper places in which to settle. This area is poor in deep ground-water sources. The soil is adequate only for surface vegetation.”
“Would it improve if it found a better area?”
“Probably. Some portions are dead and irreplaceable, but others are not past repair.”
“How could we get it to move?”
“That is outside my expertise. I speak to the architect but am not spoken to very often.”
“It would know?”
“They. The architect is a consortium of agencies.”
“They would know?”
“This unit thinks so.”
Reah frowned. “We could do a lot with this city.”
“The city is dying,” the coat-rack said. “It began to die a long time ago, when it threw out its citizens. A city cannot live uninhabited.”
“Children,” Reah said. “Children can’t survive without a community—not very well, anyway. And sick children—those no one can help. The city could find a place for children—most of them need medical care at one time or another. Resurrection could be a home to them, a school and hospital. Thousands of them…” She looked at the clearing mist over the camp.
“Is something wrong?”
“What? Oh, no. I’m just feeling slightly queasy. Too little sleep, I think.”
Ezeki gathered the volunteers and told them, in Chaser dialect, what was going to happen.
“Dis you, brayba mans all, be cut undeep—”
The Chasers listened stolidly, then looked at the three runner assistants who sat under a tree, heating their blades in a fire. Ezeki turned to Durragon when he was through explaining. Durragon motioned for the group to approach the tree one by one, Ezeki to go first, Musa Salih second, and Breetod third.
“Dis em, in glow, not bite wid bite ob pus,” Ezeki explained. The volunteers watched with squeamish interest as the swordsman laid a shallow cut across the old Habiru’s back. Blood dripped down.
“Across my arm now,” Ezeki said, wincing. The blade cut lightly from wrist to elbow. “Now put the belt around my upper arm,” he said. He swatted at tiny insects gathering around the wounds. One by one, the others were cut, until the last stepped forward with pale face and closed his eyes against the pain.
“Dis we, on now, quicklike,” Ezeki said. Breetod motioned for them to follow the old man. They walked through the inner perimeter of the camp and stood by the bristled spines of the city’s paving.
“We are hurt!” Ezeki cried, not without conviction.
“We need aid!” Nebeki crouched behind the tents with an extra band of soldiers, waiting for the spines to drop. Durragon watched with legs apart and arms clenched behind his back.
The spines remained erect. Ezeki removed the cord from his arm and squeezed more blood out. “Look, we are hurt!” he shouted, angry this time. “We need medical attention!” He wiped one hand across his arm and smeared the blood on silicate spine. It trembled at his touch.
Durragon shook his head. He turned to his tent aide and ordered the camp herbalists to come forward.
Breetod felt faint and sick. Hi
s face was pale and sweat soaked his ragged clothes. The morning air felt cold as ice. Musa Salih slumped to his knees and a Chaser reached down to help him up again. Ezeki cursed under his breath and turned toward the camp. “Bring up the—”
The spines clanged together like bells. Voices rose from the troops a dozen meters away. Ezeki turned and saw an opening form in the barrier—the spines dropped, fitting together to form a section of flat paving. He stumbled forward. Breetod, Musa Salih and Belshezar followed. The wounded Chasers hung back, terrified, until Durragon shouted for them to go. Their blood spattered the ground.
Nebeki watched as the last man passed through. “Now!” Durragon shouted.
The second team rushed from the tents with the general and ran to the gap, trying to push through before it closed. Nebeki was the first to reach the barrier. He jumped over a rising spine. His eyes widened and jaw fell open as a second spine flashed up, catching him in the stomach and lifting him high into the air. The city bellowed as if in anguish, taking Nebeki’s scream and amplifying it a thousand times. The rest of the second party fell back, clutching their ears. The noise stopped and Durragon lifted his eyes. Nebeki had been flung beyond the barrier. His body lay twisted on the ground. The spines still trembled. They jerked upward. New spines crept from beneath the barrier and advanced across the ground toward the camp. Durragon had already started running, barely ahead of his troops. They backed away, stumbling over tent-pegs and ropes and each other. They ran over fallen Chasers and camp debris, leaping like antelopes.
In two minutes, one third of the camp was obliterated and the barrier stopped growing. Durragon lay where he had stumbled, barely three meters from the new-grown spines, his face flushed with terror. His aide lay crushed, eyes glazed, blood dripping from his mouth.
The general screamed until his throat ached, then stood and brushed off his clothes.
Reah hid behind a column, listening to the men talking. She recognized Belshezar’s voice. The coat-rack waited motionless nearby, its workings making small noises. She raised a finger and it moved into the view of the men.
Breetod saw the movement from the corner of his eye and slowly turned his head. Sweat beaded on his forehead and fell into his eyes, making him blink. Belshezar pointed to the coat-rack. “There’s a worker—it can tell us where everything is.”
Reah waited until the men were under the archway, then nodded.
“Medical units will arrive soon to assist you,” the coat-rack said. “Please stay where you are.”
Ezeki dropped to his knees, lolling his head like a sick animal. He swallowed hard and looked up at the wonder of the city’s interior. It was clean, warm, comforting. The floor under his knees and toes was gentle, faintly yielding. The air was filled with the sounds of the city’s vitality, almost like music. The city may have been sick, but it was far from moribund.
Musa Salih brought out a hijab, an amulet, and pressed it to each eye, swaying on unsteady legs. “They cut us too deep,” he said. “We’re weak.”
Reah reached into her robes and brought out a blade she had removed from a dead garden tender.
Belshezar saw the worker spin around. He pointed and said he was going to investigate. Then Reah walked around the pillar. She was dressed in a red robe, knife hidden in one sleeve. Breetod drew his sword. Musa Salih smiled.
“What are you doing here?” Reah asked in a level voice.
“We were wounded in a fight,” Ezeki said. “The city gave us refuge.”
“You wounded yourselves,” Reah said. “You sliced yourselves just to get in.”
Belshezar frowned. “How can you still be here? You’re healthy.”
“I control the city now.”
“Woman, your vanity is incredible,” Musa Salih said in the old tongue. “Stand back and let men do their proper work. Trust you not in Allah?”
“What village are you from?” she asked in English.
“From the Medain, the cities north of here. You speak the old tongue?”
Reah didn’t answer. “I want you all out of here. The city will bind your wounds, then it will put you on the perimeter and you can join your soldiers outside.”
“We are suppliants,” Musah Salih said, smiling toothily at her. “You cannot refuse us.” He was still speaking the old tongue. At one time, she thought, he must have been a scholar.
“I don’t refuse you. I treat you and release you like the wild animals you are.”
“Nor can you refuse us food, drink, information. That is the code of our people.”
“You consort with Nasrany and Yudah and ask me about the code of our people?”
“They are human like you and I,” Musa said, finally using English. “Were we not all exiled long ago, faithful and káfir alike? We all lacked something.”
“Whatever we lacked, the cities can’t help us find it. My word is final. Belshezar, show them the hospital rooms. The city watches closely. No miserable soldiers can—” She stopped herself and shook her head, then addressed the coat-rack. “You’ll watch them and report to me when they’re gone.”
Belshezar started to walk toward her, but felt faint and faltered. “You’re lying,” he said. “You’re still crazy. The city can’t fix you.”
“Makes no matter to me what you think,” Reah said. She smiled grimly at the others. “Be wary. This city is full of ghosts. The sooner you leave it, the better for you.” To the Chasers she said, “Dis polis chocka sperrit, compree?”
Then she turned and walked toward the heat shaft.
She didn’t want them in the city at all. They could spoil her plans—the city wouldn’t force them out until they were well, and they could perform much mischief before then. The confrontation had merely been postponed; until they were gone they were like vipers hidden in her bedclothes.
She returned to the top of the city and the control center. She commanded a map of the surrounding area to be projected on a wall screen. The area of Akkabar was shown covered by a broad river. “Architect,” she said. The homunculus appeared on its plate. “This map is wrong. Prepare to make corrections.”
“The architect has put all city memory on read-only status,” the figure said. “No information can be altered except in an emergency.”
She sighed. “This is an emergency, obviously. The city is dying. It needs much more water than it gets here. It’s tapping the water table for miles around and the flow is weakening daily. But where two rivers meet, even in drought, water must exist a few dozen meters beneath the sand. There’s enough for a dozen cities, if the geology you taught me is correct.”
“Are you proposing the city should move?”
“I am.”
“To what end?”
“To ensure long life and health for its components.” She noticed the homunculus had changed color. She was now addressing the religious coordinator, dressed in blue.
“Why? Is it not time for an empty city to die?”
“No.” She shivered with emotion. The city actually wanted to die.
“There is no purpose in going on.”
“Yes, there is. I’m going to send city transports to all the villages for hundreds of kilometers around and have them bring back the sick children. This city can heal them.”
“Children are exiled as much as adults.”
“Are children filled with sin?”
“Yes. This city’s creed is Baptist. Those—”
“Stop that! You’re repeating the very contradiction that makes you sick. I am the leader. You will send out city parts to retrieve the sick children.”
The homunculus suddenly fuzzed and wavered. Reah, with her fingers in the sockets, could feel something changing. Far below, in one of the hundreds of control drums, something died. She wondered what it was.
The architect’s colors returned. “Yes?”
She sucked in her breath and mumbled a prayer to Allah. “Here is how you will do it.”
And the city did not object.
Belshezar
watched as the medical machines repaired his wounds. “I’d live here forever if I could,” he said.
Ezeki, already bandaged, ate from a plate held by the worker the woman had left to watch over them. “They’ll throw you out just like they did before.”
“Why haven’t they thrown her out?”
“As you say, maybe she’s still crazy. But it seems to me there’s method in her madness.”
Musa Salih grumbled deep in his throat. “She’s a woman. Women can’t enter a man’s tent when they are impure, much less a blessed city. This woman has the manners of one highborn, the wife of an important man. They get haughty when their men rank high.”
“Perhaps the city made her that way,” Ezeki said.
“She was ignorant when she came here,” Belshezar said. “We taught her how to learn from the city. Now she shows her gratitude.”
“When we go, we’ll take her with us,” Musa said. “She can tell us what she knows about the city.”
“If we’re forced to leave,” Ezeki said. “If she can stay, why can’t we?”
“Something’s moving on the outside,” Breetod said, looking through a window across the broad pavement surrounding the city. “Big machines are leaving!”
Durragon was roused from his tent by the new left-flank runner. “Sir! Dis we fight beas’ fro’ inna polis!”
He wrapped his sword belt around his waist and left his tent. The camp was in confusion. At regular intervals around the barrier, spines had dropped to form gates. Huge machines were pouring out. Most were transports—tractors with human-like torsos but no heads, spider-leg carriers and wheeled trucks with long, flexible carriages and suspensions. They maneuvered carefully through the camp, obviously intent not on destruction but on merely leaving. The spines erected behind them and the Chasers looked in dismay at the trails which had been gouged through the camp.
“Has anyone communicated with the men inside?” Durragon asked. The runner shook his head and shrugged. “Then try, damn it! Try to shout to them. Damned Chasers.” The runner smiled and went to gather a chorus of men.