Abbie supposed at least some of the fairer sex might have been willing to attempt the climb; but she was, admittedly, not one of them, not with the persistent dull pain that had lodged in her hip this last year. The views were said to be incomparable, but she would leave the Observation Deck to the athletes, the crows, and the four indifferent winds. It was the ruin of the Mirror she especially wanted to see.
Soo Yee wondered aloud, as they descended a lantern-lit stairway to an underground tunnel connecting the towers, how such a corrupt people could have built such astounding things.
“Engineering is not an art reserved exclusively to Christians,” Abbie said.
“What do you mean—were they Freemasons?”
“No, of course not. What are you learning at that church you attend? No, I mean they may have been great builders, as the ancient Egyptians were, even without the enlightenment of Scripture. And at least some of the visitors were Christians, or claimed to be.”
“Their Christianity isn’t like ours.”
“Shall we judge them on that basis? I don’t want to sound like a pagan philosopher,”—thinking of Heraclitus, about whom she had read in an article in Godey’s—“but all things change with time—perhaps even Christianity.”
“A truth is a truth forever,” Soo Yee declared, hurrying after the tour group, which threatened to disappear around a bend in the tunnel.
“I’m sure you’re right.”
A gentle lie. Abbie was sure of no such thing.
* * *
I lived among the City people for most of five years, and I must admit some of them were smug and self-satisfied in their attitude toward us. Others revered us, and saw us as the beau ideal of rugged self-reliance, but this too I have come to think of as a kind of condescension—as if we should be admired for our deadly diseases, the mortal vulnerability of our children, or our makeshift laws and customs.
In any case, their foolish admiration rankles less than their disdain. We don’t like to be found abhorrent on the grounds that we will not share a meal with a Negro or allow a woman to enter into marriage with another woman. And we’ve retaliated by denouncing the City people as race-mixers, or feminists, or Sodomites—I have heard all these hateful words applied, and worse.
* * *
“We must not denounce what we do not understand,” Abbie said, “simply because we do not understand it.”
Here at the entrance to the Hall of the Mirror, one successful restoration had been achieved. The shafts that had once contained the City elevators had been excavated and the machinery replaced with the sort of commonplace lift that carried coal miners to their work. Soo Yee was reluctant to enter the wooden cage at the top of the shaft; she said it made her think of the entrance to Hell. “You take too literally the things your pastor tells you,” Abbie said irritably. “We’re only going a few yards under the earth. I’m sure Hell lies much deeper.”
Abbie had postponed this pilgrimage for too long, out of a vain and unspoken hope that Jesse and Phoebe might yet appear on her doorstep. Much had happened since 1877. James Garfield had served two terms as president, despite a prophecy (in one of Mr. Theo Stromberg’s letters to Lucy Stone, which the press insisted on calling the Blackwell letters) that he would be assassinated—or perhaps the prophecy had prevented its own fulfillment. Prophecies had been fulfilled or overthrown on many fronts as the influence of the City continued to ripple through the world. August Kemp’s gift of practical knowledge had effected huge advances. Scientific hygiene, vaccination against disease, electric lighting, even gasoline-driven motor cars, all were becoming commonplace … though one also had to take into account Theo Stromberg’s warning about the profligate use of what he called “fossil fuels.”
But labor had not thrived under Garfield, the Negro of the South had been reduced to a peonage almost indistinguishable from slavery, the vote for women was no nearer than it had ever been. Kemp had told a pretty lie, Abbie thought, that in the future we would be ruled by the better angels of our nature; and Theo Stromberg had told a harder truth, that such angels do not arrive on clouds of glory but are born of travail and, too often, blood. (And did we not already learn that lesson at Fort Sumter, Appomattox, Richmond? Have we forgotten it so completely and so soon?)
The Hall of the Mirror, deep underground, could have enclosed two cathedrals and a shipyard. In its original state (the tour guide said as they stepped out of the lift, his voice disappearing into the cavernous space like a penny dropped into well), the chamber had been brightly illuminated. The current owners had installed a dynamo to produce alternating current, but it could bring the bank of ceiling lights to little more than a tepid glow, and lanterns were necessary to supplement it. “Allow your eyes to accommodate to the darkness,” the guide advised.
Abbie waited patiently as shapes and properties slowly became distinct. The labyrinth of side rooms, the elaborate scaffolding, the loading bays, the detritus of strange machinery did not especially interest her. As soon as she could see well enough to do so, she walked to the foot of the Mirror itself. It was a steel semicircle, like a giant’s wrist bracelet standing on end, as tall as the room was tall and as wide as it was wide, barnacled with fragments of copper and wire. In its prime it had enclosed a reflective but immaterial surface, a shimmering boundary between two worlds. Huge motors, railroad cars, even airships had passed through that boundary, along with hundreds of visitors. Now the Mirror opened onto nothing more than compressed earth and old Illinois stone.
The tour group moved from one novelty to another, but Abbie remained in place. She recalled what Doris Vanderkamp had told her: When the soldiers came, all of us who worked at the City got rounded up and sorted out to find if any visitors were among us. I looked for Jesse, I waited for him, but he wasn’t to be found. Nor his sister that he talked about. Maybe they found a way to escape the troops, but I doubt that, since Jesse was in a bad way with his wound and his sister was also hurt, or so he told me. My own guess is that they went through the Mirror. It’s against the rules but the rules were being broken right and left. That’s what I think, anyhow. They’re safe there in the future, I think, probably flying through the air or visiting the moon.
That was the belief Miss Vanderkamp had chosen to adopt, and Abbie had adopted it as well.
“It’s like a tomb in here,” Soo Yee said, shivering.
“No more a tomb than a gravestone.”
Soo Yee said, “I’m sorry. They were like your children, I know.”
Jesse and Phoebe Cullum. “Their father was a well-meaning drunkard, and I was a poor substitute for a real mother. But yes, I loved them, in my way. Not a tomb, Soo Yee, because I think they are not dead.”
It was her benediction. The words were swallowed by darkness and the mineral smell of old earth, deep rust, autumn rain. And what was changed by her coming here? Nothing she could name. And yet.
Take care of your sister, Jesse.
“Are you praying?”
“Yes.”
“But the tour is leaving. I don’t want to be left behind.”
“Then let us join them.” Abbie turned away from the empty Mirror. “I’m ready for daylight now.” Daylight, and whatever came next.
* * *
Were they our betters? No. They are people like us, Aunt Abbie, no better than some and no worse than others. From what I have learned of their world I can say with confidence that they have not brought forth a paradise on Earth.
But if there is such a thing as progress, perhaps Futurity is entitled to some part of the disdain with which they regard us.
Until the world is perfect we pay the price of progress by acknowledging the sins of the past. It is the business of the future to chastise us, and we ought to accept that chastisement. One of the secrets of these people is that they, too, were chastened by visitors from a distant future. Mr. Kemp is among those who refused the chastening. That is what makes a lie of all his rosy visions, and that is why his plans for us have gone so wron
g.
Time is short and I do not know whether I will see you again. If not, I thank you for your countless kindnesses and I apologize for all the hardships I exposed you to. Don’t fear for me, Aunt Abbie. No matter where I might find myself at the end of all this trouble, I will try to conduct myself in a way that would make you proud.
I make no other predictions—as always, the future is unclear.
Yours truly,
Jesse Cullum
* * *
BY ROBERT CHARLES WILSON
from Tom Doherty Associates
A Hidden Place
A Bridge of Years
Mysterium
Darwinia
Bios
The Perseids and Other Stories
The Chronoliths
Blind Lake
Spin
Axis
Julian Comstock
Vortex
Burning Paradise
The Affinities
Last Year
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ROBERT CHARLES WILSON was born in California and lives in Toronto. His novels include Mysterium, which won the Philip K. Dick Award; Darwinia, winner of the Aurora Award; The Chronoliths, winner of the John W. Campbell Memorial Award; Blind Lake, a New York Times Notable Book; and Spin, winner of the Hugo Award for Best Novel. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
Part One: The City of Futurity, 1876
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two: Runners, 1877
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Three: The Siege of Futurity, 1877
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue: Magnificent Ruins, 1889
By Robert Charles Wilson
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LAST YEAR
Copyright © 2016 by Robert Charles Wilson
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Michael Graziolo
Cover elements © 2016 Shutterstock
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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Tor® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-3263-9 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-0078-6 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466800786
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[email protected] First Edition: December 2016
Robert Charles Wilson, Last Year
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