“Ezeki told me about Alexander. You shouldn’t have told him it was a toy. It’ll make him reluctant to use it and we’ll have to lead the litter.”
What to do with a fabled city…
She took a drink of clear, cold water from a fountain in an upper-level park. The grass was tended by organic machines which ate the cuttings and fertilized the lawns. Irrigation hoses wormed underground and aerated the soil at the same time. The trees were trimmed by things with the attributes of giraffes, rose bushes and silvery shears. What struck her most of all was the coherent motif. Each part obviously belonged to the city as a whole, wearing just the right shapes with the proper angles and curves, carrying a certain neatness in every portion. Those places in the city which were completely healthy were like a child’s dream as imagined by civic-minded adults—beauty mixed with fantasy, utility with crazy ingenuity.
The loss of the cities must have driven the Expolitans nearly mad. God-Does-Battle was a fine world, capable of supporting as wide a variety of life as old Earth, but it was a hard, nature-bound place. She shook her head. The planet had adapted to humanity long generations ago, after the artificial controls had failed. Misery and despair and disease had returned; at times, it seemed God-Does-Battle was trying to eat them alive. Against these odds, the Expolitans had made a place for themselves, blunted the planet’s attacks, and settled down to the sort of catch-as-catch-can existence that Reah and nine or ten generations before her grew familiar with. All that time, the cities had seemed to mock them.
But what could she do about it?
All the cities had been connected by formal communications links. Though each city had been autonomous, they had shared in the spiritual policing and had reported their progress to each other, hour by hour.
It had taken less than a century for the cities to make their final decision. One awful morning, the cities coordinated and cast out all their citizens. In accord with emergency procedures guaranteeing the ostracism of spiritually diseased communities, the links between the cities broke down. The people wandered homeless through the park-like forests and fields. There was wide-spread starvation, violence. No ship from outside dared to land, lest the cities commandeer their vehicles or the citizens destroy them in a frenzy.
By themselves, the cities could do nothing to change things. Some had apparently tried and failed. People would have to take the initiative. But for a thousand years they had tried and failed, too.
Could she manage any better?
Reah looked back on her life and saw herself as three different people: first, the contented, ignorant wife of the Moslem blacksmith; second, the insane harridan; and third, the comfortable, sane and very educated … what? Redeemer of Resurrection?
None of the other inhabitants paid much attention to her, and on the whole she distrusted them. They were friendly but didn’t seem to appreciate what had been given to them. They were almost irresponsible in the way they enjoyed Resurrection. Once, while walking, she caught Rebecca and Belshezar making love in an upper-level fountain. She shuddered. And yet… They were only enjoying themselves after years of deprivation and past months of battle and agony. She felt the temptation to let loose, too, but laxity of body and character was not that far from laxity of mind, which she found abhorrent. Never again the fear.
As she sat on a bench in the park, near a sparkling column of glass carrying fluid nutrients to the highest reaches of the city, she began to fall in love again, not with luxury and ease, but with the idea her ancestors had once had. Outside there was no holiness in the suffering, and nothing to look forward to but a long, grinding crawl back to the level of society which had made the cities. Inside, there was hope of a sudden leap, benefiting from past experience.
To realize that, she had to learn how to control the city, and how to doctor it. Somewhere in the city’s memory there had to be instructions. She stood on the grass and put her arms around the fluid-rushing column, eyes wet. “Allah, Allah,” she said. “Preserve me! This is madness again, I can’t dream such things. Only days ago I was filthy and near death. Who am I to wish to control Paradise?”
Then she wiped her eyes and stepped back, hands tingling from the living sound of the city’s blood. This wasn’t madness returning, or at least it was only madness fighting more madness—the demented exile of a thousand years.
“It’s time to go back,” she whispered, uneasy about talking to herself. “We have fallen below humanity, and now we must return.”
Durragon looked across the field at the tide of the marching city. His neck hair was on end. “It came out of the western hills three hours ago,” Breetod said. Now it was blocking the army’s path.
“It’s very sick,” Nebeki said. “It moves slow. A lot of the pieces are dead.”
“It’s like a woman without a man,” Durragon said. “A ghost wandering from place to place.”
Nebeki glanced at Breetod and raised an eyebrow. Durragon was seldom poetic; the sight of the old city obviously moved him.
“We think it is the city called Tomoye,” Breetod said. “It sat on a hill to the west for sixty years while most of the other cities killed themselves on the razor-ridge mountains.” Two years before, Durragon’s armies had crossed the mountains and seen the ruins.
“Bring me the Habiru,” Durragon said. Nebeki trotted off to fetch the teacher. The old thin man complained beneath his breath as he was prodded up the sandy hummock to where Durragon sat on his green mount.
“What is it, General?” he asked, suddenly obsequious. He bowed before the multi-eyed head of the city part.
“How many cities are there now?”
“A handful, General. Most are dissolved, dead or with their parts gone rogue.”
“How many?”
Ezeki Iben Tav pursed his lips. “In this area, three perhaps. The closest is the city on the high plain. I saw it many times as a youngster. No doubt it’s dying as fast as this one.” He pointed to the marching columns, supports, and bulkheads, with their attendant carriers and spider-leg guides. “I don’t know if it will ever come together again, when it reaches its destination. It doesn’t look very organized.”
Grey clouds were spilling over the mountains to the east and the air was thick with humidity. Durragon had difficulty getting a satisfactory breath. He was used to colder southern climes. “Do you recommend capturing any of the parts?”
The Habiru squinted at the procession and shook his head. Always better to be cautious; one seldom lost one’s head by being conservative. “No,” he said. “Too many guides and defenders. Chop up the army like blades of grass.”
Durragon stood up in the saddle and sniffed the breeze blowing west. Breetod did likewise but smelled nothing unusual.
“I disagree. Nebeki, move the runners and their divisions into formation this side of the city. Breetod, put half your runners and men to harrying to rear and picking up stragglers. Caution them that no parts are to be injured. Take the other half and see if you can stop the city—you personally in the lead. What are you waiting for?”
“I’m off,” Breetod said, turning on his heel and running. Durragon sat back in the saddle and sighed. The old Habiru caught an acrid smell and thought, “The man’s scared.”
Durragon was remembering the loss of his finger many years ago. A rogue city part, like a butcher shop’s rack of knives set on cylinder, had fled a band of his father’s hunters and run Durragon down. He had been lucky to survive.
“Something that big must have a thinking part,” he said to the Habiru. “Something to keep it organized. Catch the brain, and we will know how a city works. Maybe then…”
“It’s been tried,” the old man snapped. He bowed and said, more softly, “Many times others have tried, but the cities were too strong.”
“This city isn’t strong any more, you said so yourself. We’ll treat it just like we’d treat an army.”
The Habiru held his counsel. He wanted to mention that all the armies they had fought this far
had been poorly equipped and weakened by drought and hunger. He watched the clouds boiling above the mountains, spinning in the hot updrafts of air from the lower hills.
Perhaps Durragon was right. No city had ever come this close to the old alluvial plain. But then, would the brain of a city so foolish be worth capturing?
“Will it rain?” Durragon asked.
“No,” the old man said wearily. “Not here. Look at the clouds. They’re starting to break up already.” They could both feel the humidity decreasing, being sucked out of the air.
“None of us gives any thought to it,” Rebecca said, clinging to Belshezar’s arm. She sounded resentful. “We’re not sure how much Resurrection will put up with… we’re mostly healed now. It could throw all of us out any minute.” There was going to be a dance. Already the patients were arriving in clothes designed a thousand years ago, but created only a few hours before.
“Have you found instructions, though?” Reah asked. “On how to run the city, keep it clean…”
“It does all that all by itself,” Belshezar said. “It doesn’t need anything.”
“But it’s dying.” Reah pointed to a broad grey spot on the atrium ceiling. The rows and rows of empty seats were browning and spotting like handfuls of autumn leaves. “Perhaps we can save it.”
“It takes thousands of years for a city to die,” Rebecca said. “We’ll all be dust before that happens.”
“Well,” Belshezar said, “that’s not exactly true. A city can die in a few decades. But this one—the parts we live in, anyway—will last out our lifetimes easily.”
“We should just stay here and not interfere, then,” Reah mused.
“Would it be better to live outside?” Rebecca asked, her eyes wide and lips thinned. “You came here by the grace of God, to live in luxury as one of the chosen—”
“No,” Reah interrupted firmly. “Not chosen. I came here perhaps by Allah’s will, but not to sit and watch everything rot. You won’t help?”
Belshezar looked at the floor. “Too much risk. You shouldn’t interfere. Haven’t we been good to you, helped you?”
Reah stood silent in front of them for a few seconds. “There aren’t many of you,” she said. “You could spend days finding me if I wanted to get lost.”
Rebecca’s mouth dropped open, showing her bottom teeth. “What…” Her eyes narrowed, as if she had suddenly seen Reah in a clear light. “We’ve been here longer. We know the city better. Don’t make us throw you out.”
“You don’t have the power to throw anyone out!” Reah spat. Belshezar reached out to take her arm but she backed away, soft dress swirling.
“Then leave by yourself,” Rebecca said. “Leave us alone!”
Reah shook her head. She turned away and Belshezar began to follow. “Wait a moment,” he said. “Let’s talk about this—” She ran. Before he could reach her she clambered into a bee-shaped flier and told it to take her to the city’s peak.
As the flier rose in a slow spiral, Belshezar and Rebecca stood on the floor below, finally merging into the grand lily design which folded and unfolded in the cool green light.
The city’s peak rose twelve hundred meters above the high plains. The air was colder and thinner so high, making it hard for her to breathe. She left the vehicle at the landing platform with orders to stay and walked through the arched buttresses which supported the city’s crest. Above and below the porch surrounding the shaft were garden levels, terraced and provided with waterfalls and streams. The air smelled of flowers, but half the gardens were a riot now, untended by organic machines which lay in moldering rains. God-Does-Battle’s wildlife was already finding sanctuary up here, away from the more vigilant defenses below. Birds nested in the trees or on splintered columns, and insects scampered across the pathways at her approach. A giant moth broad as her shoulders swooped by with a tiny squeak and lighted on a closed bud. She stopped to look at it, then hurried on and lost herself in the peak’s central forest.
The trees had once been part of the city itself, but with the failing systems, some had germinated on their own and left generations of independent offspring. Now the forest was little different from natural woods below, but there were no large animals. As she walked, she discovered that a few houses still functioned in the middle of the trees, and she decided to stay in one for the rest of the night.
The furniture was scattered through the rooms, bent and crumbling, cloth in rotting tatters. Dust covered the floor and made her cough. The insect life was profuse. She had second thoughts—but then she saw the console and covered screen. The bench in front of the console was solid. She sat on it and requested information. With a rustle of dust, the louvres opened and a homunculus appeared on the plate.
“Are there any facilities for cleaning this place?” she asked. The figure appeared to think the question over for a moment. “One machine replies; would you like it activated and put to work?”
“Yes. Also, I’d like fresh bedclothes and furniture manufactured.”
“They will be transported from factories in the lower levels.”
“That’s fine. Now, while I wait, I want to be connected to the city archives.”
“Archives are closed. Only city managers may see—”
“I am a city manager,” Reah said, tensing with her lie.
The homunculus wavered for a moment, then became solid again. “City manager—status, please.”
“Retired. Listen, the city is in need of organization—”
“That is the status,” the homunculus said. “Pardon this unit. Not all portions function as well as they should. Which archives do you wish to see?”
“Records of previous managers.”
She felt a presence behind her and jumped, then screamed. A man dressed in black was walking out of the wall. He raised one hand and moved his lips silently, beckoning her to follow.
The army was arranged as Durragon had ordered. The first group of city parts was coming up against the forward line. He could see the Chasers running in and out like reckless children at play. Big machines rolled out of the group on tractor treads, forcing the marauders back, while the smaller parts moved toward the center.
The rear lines faced similar problems, but they had already cut out a score of stragglers and were tying them down with ropes and stakes. Periodically one of the bound parts would break loose and a knot of men would gather around it again. The struggle reminded him of a formation of ants trying to stop a burst of water. The beleaguered city seemed to run over itself at certain points, and pieces would reassemble, forming nightmare castles and towers which dissolved into the common mass minutes after. Breetod stood by Durragon, leaning on the flank of the green mount, chewing on a piece of sweet grass. They both turned at once when rising smoke caught their eyes.
“What’s that?” Durragon asked.
“Bastards have set a grass fire,” Breetod said. “They’re trying to stop the advance with a fire!”
“Tell the rest of the troops to start cutting into the rear. I want them to find anything that looks like it’s in command—anything! Cut it out of the formation and bring it here. And whoever set that fire—shoot them on the spot.”
Breetod ran off. Nebeki came up on his other side, breathing hard, face smudged with dirt. He was smiling until he saw the trickle of smoke on the plain. “What’s that?”
“Never mind. Take all the captured parts and get them off the plain, away from the grass. Take them into the hills on the other side.”
In an hour, the fire raged out of control. Smoke reached up to the blue sky and streamed to the west. The city had stopped. Durragon could see that large sections of it were already on tire. Before long at least a third of the mass was blazing, but the city would not retreat. Breetod returned, gasping and exhausted, face smoke-darkened and hair snagged with burrs and hits of grass. “Sir, we’re going to lose the whole city. There aren’t any defenses left to put out the fire. It’s just waiting to die.”
&nbs
p; “Follow,” Durragon said, urging the mount forward.
The next few hours blurred in his memory. He rode out among the burning city parts, coughing in the smoke. The night sky descended and the plain and surrounding hills were lit up by the central blaze. Many of the Chasers were trapped and burned to death, or so badly burned they had to be put out of their agony. The rest of the army herded captured parts across the plain into the hills, tying them to the thickest trees and cutting down the brush behind them to form a firebreak. Breetod was almost trampled by a transport unit which rumbled over him, undercarriage passing a scant finger’s breadth above his back.
When the fire showed no signs of abating, they untied the captured parts and herded them still higher, into the rock columns which had fallen away from some of the sheer hill ledges.
Durragon wandered through the assembly on foot, with the Habiru teacher following several steps behind. A few suspect parts were isolated and a rough fence built around them. One—a drum that had been carried by a transport until the transport burned—had no obvious purpose, and Ezeki Iben Tav examined it closely. “This may be a control,” he said.
By morning the plain was a smoldering expanse of the char. The fire had passed to east and west, ending at the dust of the river bottom and the rocks of the higher hills. After a few hours of fitful, coughing-racked sleep, Durragon took his mount out to survey the remains of the city.
“So passes the city of Tomoye,” the old Habiru said, bending down to rescue a small water-spreader lacking its hose. It wriggled in his arms and tried to spurt dry air.
The ghost’s path was old; he went through houses and walls and walked along upper levels which had long since collapsed. She followed as best she could, hair on end, muttering automatic prayers. The figure was not supernatural—it was a normal function of the city to project guides and teachers—but she wasn’t immune to awe.
The figure stopped at a tower which rose thirty-five meters above the city crest, on the outer circuit of walkways. He pointed at an eroded panel and she reached out to touch it. Then he vanished.