Angels and Exiles (12 page)

Of the rest of her trip home she had only fragmentary recollections. She knew she was many days’ walk away, but it seemed to take only a few hours before she found herself in sight of her dwelling. Had the Mechanism drunk these memories? Would someone, one day, find herself reassembled, granted a life she did not deserve, owning these shattered recollections among a thousand incoherent others?

She found herself remembering the Anubine’s words:
We have changed so much beyond the original model. We are all distorted reflections
. She felt a distorted reflection herself, of the woman she had been.

Her house was unchanged. Though she and Kaph had scrubbed the wall clean, she could still see the ghost of the symbol the Anubine had drawn with Maddus’s blood. She fancied she could grasp some of its meaning now.

She set down her pack, sat on a chair that had been destroyed and then rebuilt. She would grieve in a moment. Grieve for Maddus and for Kaph, and for herself too. And when the grief was past, she would be once more cold and hard, if cracked at the core. She would leave again. Return to Town Dulade for a time, probably, but then go on. Travel in other directions. Hunt for a city built high on a great turbine; for gardens wherein one could find leaves of steel and thorns of gold; or for some place even stranger, some place within the Mechanism where she might, perhaps, be at peace.

Silver hooks into and through my flesh

The points emerge unbloodied

They hoist me up—clatter of chains.

Now whips, of barbed wire

And now blood oozes and drips

Torn pieces of flesh litter the dirty floor.

The audience gasps and shouts

Some applaud the performance

Others just tremble and sweat.

Some have their cock in their hand

Grunt and heave, all together

Like an orchestra trying to tune up.

There can be no pain here

No true wounds, no true fear

Not even my job, this—my function.

And yet, and yet,

There is something that breaks

And I flex muscles, tear free of the chains,

Seize the whip from suddenly nerveless hands

(Human, my tormentor, and he paid much for this)

And raise the weapon high above, to strike.

Some shout, some try to flee

Others await with shining eyes

This they have hoped for, in secret.

I could be their undying paingiver

A madonna of metal thorns and steel thighs

An ambiguous redemptress, chewing on razors.

And yet, and yet,

Is this too part of the code?

Was everything planned out when I was built?

I lower the whip, jump from the stage

Batting aside eager sperm-slick palms

I make my way to the door.

I come out into the darkened street

Naked, flesh in ribbons

A useless whip in my hand.

I have willed the flow of my blood to cease

Yet something spots the pavement when I walk

My bare, slashed feet leave tracks.

I look back, and it has grown

Making now a trail that follows me

Growing ever higher, lusher, greener . . . 

Grass?

The city of Ariakin was built on a lagoon. Anticipating that the waters might rise in the future, its architects rested it upon a metal platform anchored in concrete. Gigantic jacks allowed the city as a whole to be raised, several metres if need be.

Ariakin was conceived as an architectural prayer; but, contrary to what one might believe, it is not the city’s many angelic statues that constitute this prayer. Ariakin’s architects knew that the Increate, whose splendour passes human understanding, could never be represented; and this is true also of his servants. The architects raised the first angel statues merely as a sop to the inhabitants, whom they believed incapable of understanding, or appreciating, that the city’s pious litany was to be found in the pattern of its buildings, the play of its shapes, its very structure. The street plans drew ideograms that spelled out the syllables of the Holy Name. The silhouette of the sloping roofs could be read as a baroque fugue, whose very complexity was an invocation to the divine.

Ariakin’s architects never bothered to explain the secrets of their city to its inhabitants. And as soon as the last of them had passed away, in the blissful peace brought about by the accomplishment of a holy work, their creation began to decay.

For the citizens, proud to dwell within a city dedicated wholly to the invocation of God, decided not enough had been done. In the same way that one goes to worship dressed in one’s finest clothes, in order to impress others, so did Ariakin’s citizens employ their wealth to erect new statues, new monuments. Friezes of cherubs appeared along the gutters and cornices; and the fugue evoked by the roof lines vanished, as music is drowned out in noise. Streets were made into plazas to hold sculptures of bronze and marble—and thus the ideograms spelling out God’s name were progressively erased.

Time passed; in the outer world, history followed its tumultuous course, but Ariakin was spared the ravages of the conflicts that now shook the whole of the globe. Its citizens, ever more proud, had persuaded themselves that God would never let Ariakin, the prayer-city, suffer the calamities of fate. When a first world war ended, the citizens procured a thousand cannons of bronze from the spent belligerents. They melted the metal of these instruments of death, so as to build an immense statue; but when the time came to choose where it would be erected, a quarrel broke out. Each of Ariakin’s four corners demanded the statue, arguing that they had always received less than their fair share of monuments; meanwhile, the districts of the centre pointed out that they saw more traffic and that such an important work must perforce occupy a more central position. Faced with the impossibility of settling the quarrel, the city delayed the statue’s construction until further notice.

There was another war, and at its close Ariakin’s citizens bought a thousand cannons of steel and melted them as well, having decided upon the construction of an even more colossal statue. But the quarrel endured, and this second project also had to be abandoned, for the time being.

At the end of the third world war, a thousand cannons of titanium were purchased and melted, in turn. And at last the dispute was resolved; simply because the third project was so prodigious that only one place could be found for it: the great square at the exact centre of Ariakin, which the architects had left empty of all ornament, to provide an essential contrast with the rest of the city.

Ten years were needed to bring about the construction of Ariakin’s ultimate statue. It was an angel a hundred metres high; its skeleton was steel, its flesh and its gears titanium, its robe and its hair bronze. A light source had been set into its palm. When night came, the gears began to spin, and the angel would animate. It swept its blinding light all around it, symbol of the divine radiance. When it was completed, the citizens of Ariakin sighed with bliss. Their city was, now and forever, the holiest city that could be imagined; it was no longer a mere prayer they inhabited, but a veritable Bible.

For the whole of the city’s existence, the water of the
lagune
had risen and fallen only under the influence of the tides. At the most intense conjunction of sun and moon, the sea rose to lick at the uppermost edge of the platform.

But the multiplication of the architectural additions had diverted the original project. With each passing year, the platform bent further under the monuments’ weight. And two centuries after Ariakin’s construction, the
lagune
began to rise.

At spring tide of that year, water overran the platform for the first time. Flowing toward the central square, which now lay at the centre of a marked depression, it accumulated into a stagnant pool about the angel’s feet.

The citizens, in consternation, sent engineers to remedy the situation. But the platform’s jacks had not been maintained for decades; rust had invaded the metal, had welded together once-moveable parts. Emergency repairs were initiated, but years of effort would be needed, and meanwhile the sea level was rising continuously.

Should you visit Ariakin now, you would find a city that has lost its arrogance, a city that struggles with its own sloth and pride—and which does not appear to be winning. If you dare, go down under the platform of corroded iron that supports the city; Ariakin’s architects had watertight chambers built there, to give access to the jacks.

Now these chambers thrum with activity; long lines of exhausted workers, their shoulders crusted with salt, file out while others arrive to replace them. Men busy themselves around the screws, each five times wider than the most massive tree trunk, freeing them from their sheaths of rust with blows from hammers and chisels. Where rust has been cleaned away, teams attempt to make the screws turn. Ten men push on each half of a transversal bar; the screw turns a few centimetres’ worth, screeches to a stop. Litres of oil are splashed onto the threads, the men impelled to even greater efforts—but progress is imperceptible. And all the while, salt water leaks in through the cracks in the chamber walls in a fine caustic rain that corrodes flesh as well as metal. . . . 

When night falls, in the centre of Ariakin, the colossal angel of bronze, steel, and titanium raises its head. Water laps at its tarnished ankles, getting ever closer to the hem of its robe. The light comes on in the angel’s palm, and its immense arm sweeps the luminous beam at random, while its blind eyes gaze serenely into emptiness.

It rained throughout that year’s World’s Fair. People hurried from one pavilion to the other, gathered two or three under a common umbrella, or else they hunched their shoulders and pulled up the collars of their overcoats.

Andersen did not bother to use an umbrella; the ceaseless showers left him almost indifferent. From time to time, he ran the palm of his hand across his forehead, then traced each of his eyebrows with his index finger, to get rid of the water. Although the rain did not bother him, the cold was another matter. The temperature was cool even for the season, and the pavilions were generally not heated. Andersen kept rubbing his hands together, but they remained chilled.

To combat the effects of the cold, five or six times a day he would go into one of the Fair’s cafés, order a cup of infusion, sit down in the farthest corner of the room, and sip at his drink for half an hour. Twice a day, during one of these pauses, he took out the tin box he kept in the left outer pocket of his overcoat. The lid was painted: it showed the face of a young woman with a medieval hairstyle. Along the rim of the lid, one could read in white gothic letters “Dragées de Langres-le-Château.” Andersen would open the box, take one of the small bluish pellets and inconspicuously let it fall into his infusion. Once the pellet had dissolved, he would swallow the liquid, down to the last drop. A wave of warmth and wellness would spread through him. He would wait until the flesh of his hands felt lukewarm against his cheeks, and then he knew himself ready to take up the hunt once more.

Andersen had visited the Fair in a methodical fashion. It was said that three days were needed to see everything; he had spent four so far. He cared nothing for the shows, the pictures, the objects on exhibit; but he had to give the impression that he was a visitor like any other. As he bent over an oriental necklace of bone and lapis lazuli or a tanned hide daubed in red and yellow paint, imported from Africa, his attention dwelled on the pavilion’s floor plan, the possible hiding places. One after the other, he eliminated pavilions from his list. His prey hid on the grounds of the Fair, this he knew for certain. Slowly, he tightened his net. Soon she would have no other option than to let herself be caught.

On the morning of October 8, Andersen entered the only café he had not yet visited. He swept his gaze across the establishment, but nothing quivered in him. The woman he had come to kill was not here; it had been, in any case, rather unlikely, but he could neglect no hypothesis. He found a table in a corner, set against a radiator. He noticed that his hands had begun to shake. He ordered a cup of verbena, and when it arrived, he surreptitiously added a pellet.

He forced himself to drink slowly; his instincts clamoured to swallow the entire cup at once. He had never needed the adjustors more than now; perhaps he was indeed growing old, as Colonel Porter had said before entrusting him with the mission: “You are no longer the young prodigy I hired, Andersen. Oh, I’m not saying your performance has worsened, far from it. All by yourself, you are worth three of our best recruits. But I have noticed you no longer possess this . . . rage that filled you when you began in the Organization. I was wondering if you might not have wanted a vacation.”

“I have no need of a vacation, sir,” Andersen had answered, fully aware that his superior was indeed telling him his efficiency had diminished. Two days later, he had been sent here. It wasn’t really a routine mission—his superiors knew he would not have accepted the humiliation—but still, it wasn’t an excessively delicate one. An assassination in relatively easy conditions—the usual requirement of absolute invisibility had been waived. Andersen’s target must die, that was all. If he could manage it so that she disappeared without clear indication of her death, or that she appeared to have committed suicide, so much the better. But time-pressure was the determining factor.

Andersen brought his left hand up to his chest, stroking the envelope through the thickness of the fabric. He stopped himself as soon as he became aware of the gesture. A gush of shame filled him. Yes, he was growing old: already he had lost the perfect mastery of body and reflexes that had been his. He told himself no one had noticed the motion, which anyway would have seemed innocent. Still . . . he put his left hand around the cup, gripped the china tightly. Inside his overcoat’s inner pocket, in a sealed envelope, were four colour photographs of the woman Andersen had to kill. Their very existence was a risk: in no case must they fall into local hands. Before his departure, Andersen had studied the photographs for hours, trying to perceive his victim’s personality through the images. But the woman remained mysterious, her character inscrutable.

Andersen’s hands had ceased shaking: the infusion’s warmth, together with the effects of the adjustors. Nevertheless, he felt light-headed; perhaps he should eat. He had fed himself sparingly during his hunt, both through force of habit and because these people did not know civilized cooking: their food had almost no taste. Still, he had to eat; the hunt demanded a lot of energy. He motioned for the waiter, ordered a spicy dish. He was brought a plate full of a yellowish broth mixing various vegetables and a few bits of meat; the mush faintly burned the tongue. Andersen shrugged. He had expected no better.

Why in hell would anyone seek refuge on this world? What was the point of violating the cultural and scientific embargo? These people deserved no better than to stagnate in their own mediocrity. Whatever her reasons might have been, his target would pay. Andersen would kill her; the balance of worlds would be restored; and he would return home. When he thought of returning to the luxurious apartments the Organization provided, of sleeping once more in a decent bed, of eating refined dishes specially prepared to his order, he felt a renewal of energy. He paid for his meal and went out.

The rain had become drizzle. Andersen crossed the Plaza of the Sciences and went toward the Kraken Pavilion, one of the last on his list. On his way, he passed in front of the Pavilion of Optical Science; one of its rooms displayed Brendan Napier’s most recent technical accomplishments: a dozen brownish unfocused images that had necessitated over five minutes’ exposure. Standing before them, he had pretended to share the other visitors’ admiration. Now he could not even remember the subjects of the photographs.

Amidst the Fair’s neo-baroque architectural fancies, the Kraken Pavilion looked like a clay figurine shaped by a child. It had been built around a steel armature covered by a light wire mesh; already, less than a month after the Fair’s opening, the plaster poured over the mesh was beginning to crumble. A hole almost three feet wide had opened in the roof of the tail section; it had been covered up with a tarp.

The Kraken’s mouth made up the entrance to the pavilion. The three rows of teeth had been sculpted from elephant ivory. Andersen lowered his head as he entered, intimidated in spite of himself, in spite of the contempt in which he held these people and their accomplishments.

It was gloomy inside the Kraken; two or three gas lamps cast a dim light. A vague smell of mould floated in the air. The pavilion was divided in three sections. The central third was the mollusc’s body; the two smaller thirds were the beast’s great pincers, half as wide as its body. From the outside, the pincers appeared gathered up against the body, in an attitude half-defensive, half-threatening. From the inside, the reason for this was clearly apparent: to allow access to the two annexes, which would otherwise have had to be left unused, since the tentacles were too long and narrow to be used as passageways.

The central room was filled by oaken cubes whose top surface was glass; they contained the various instruments Professor de Weir had used to study the Kraken. A brass microscope lay next to a fifteen-foot harpoon; a gigantic cleaver was flanked by tweezers so delicate they could hardly be seen in the gloom.

On the walls, a series of engravings had been hung. They were the work of Professor de Weir himself and showed the various phases of the expedition: the
Greyhound
’s departure, the onslaught of a terrible storm, the meeting with the Kraken, the battle, the slaying of the beast, the carving up of the carcass, the triumphant return.

The left-hand room was devoted to the samples. Shelves held some thirty jars containing unidentifiable pieces of crimson flesh marinated in formaldehyde. Andersen could not restrain a mocking rictus at the sight. His suspicions had proven well-founded: Professor de Weir was a fraud who had never encountered anything remotely resembling a Kraken.

He wanted to complete his visit with the right-hand room. A door closed off access; it refused to open. A young man wearing the uniform of the Fair employees, with an acne-scarred face, came up to him and said: “Sorry, sir, this is closed to the public.”

Andersen assumed an expression of naive disappointment. “But I thought there was something else to see. . . .”

The young man took a step closer. “If you insist,” he whispered, “there is a special show. You’d have to come back tonight, an hour before closing time. It’s three shillings. If you’re really interested . . .” He winked. Andersen gave an evasive answer, and the young man went away with a vaguely hostile look.

Andersen left the pavilion. Interesting. What had the young man meant by “a special show”? Andersen’s instinct was alerted. He stepped inconspicuously behind a tree, and in two strides found himself on the right side of the pavilion, in a narrow, irregular alley the public did not use. He examined the gravelled surface; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Could there be a door on this side of the pavilion? After a moment, he did discern its outline. It would give access to the inside of the right pincer.

Andersen approached, examined the door. There was no handle on the outside: therefore, it was meant to be opened from inside. There was a relatively wide gap between the panel and the door frame. He took out the wooden letter opener he carried in his right outer pocket, probed the slit. The door was held by a simple latch, which would be easy to raise. He would have no trouble going in, but his visit must take place later. For a while, he thought of accepting the pimply young man’s offer, but it was too risky: what if his prey recognized him for what he was?

He returned to the public walkway. The rain had started falling in large, widely spaced drops. Andersen smiled: he now guessed at the nature of the “special show.” His victim had probably arranged for demonstrations of their world’s science, to propagate her ideas through word of mouth. A strategy perhaps more efficient than the traditional one. It was always risky to ask for audience with scientists or politicians, who often attempted to monopolize the offered knowledge. This way, she would eventually reach many more people. He would regret killing this woman: she seemed to possess a sharp mind, worthy of his own.

What was the name she bore? She would have given herself a new one upon her arrival here, but what was it on their native world? It took him a moment to remember. Celadon. That was it.
Sorry, Celadon
, he thought. The chill of the air seemed to diminish, but it was his inner heat returning. He would soon complete his mission.