The Architect of Aeons (13 page)

Midmost in the circular sea of Tycho was a central peak, formed by the splash of the momentarily molten rock during the impact, rising a mile above the black plain.

That central peak had been burrowed, cut, and carved by machines smaller than grasshoppers into a cathedral based on the eccentricities of Gothic design.

The boat was directed to splash down in a crater that had been filled with a fine dust, whose particles had been milled to frictionless smoothness. Under the moon's low gravity, this substance cushioned their landing like water, and long arms of particles rose up at the impact, forming no clouds, but falling straight down again, albeit with elfin slowness. A tinkling like rainfall was audible, despite the airlessness, as particles of dust rebounded from the hull.

“Home again, to my world of exile,” Del Azarchel sent from his coffin to Montrose's. “A dead globe with a black sky! How I despise this place.”

Montrose sent back, “This is my first time—that I remember—I've landed on an extraterrestrial body. For me, this is a damn historic moment!” He checked a monitor to see how his coffin was oriented in relation to the surface, now that the boat was no longer in zero gee, whether he was prone or supine. He was facedown. “I landed face-first! That is one small face-flop for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”

Del Azarchel (who, over the eons, had heard every single servant of his, posthuman or subhuman, make some variation of that joke upon moonlanding) impatiently began the process of thawing his body, eyes first, so that he could roll them in disdain.

When their ears thawed, among the hums and ringing of their ear hairs coming back to life, they heard a voice like many thunders, transmitted by conduction through the bedrock and surface-dust and hull, uttering words in Latin. There was no noise of breath behind the voice, but instead a silvery and pure sound, beautiful but cold as mountain snow.

The moon was speaking to them.

3. Tycho Basilica

The voice told them to leave their boat where it lay, and to leave Amphith
ö
e in hibernation, but to approach on foot. There was no way to reply, since the message was sent by conduction through the rocky surface of the moon through the hull.

Soon Montrose and Del Azarchel, dressed in their traditional black-and-silver space garb of the Hermetic Order, were bouncing with silent, elfin footfalls across the cracked black lava plain of Tycho. A cloud of dust rose up at each step. Because it formed no plumes, to their earthly eyes the substance as it fell looked not like dust, but like water of unearthly cinereal hue. Each dust mote fell in a geometrically straight line or nicely parabolic curve, if slowly, to the surface, not spreading and not floating.

The lines of the Monument writing crisscrossed their path, swirl upon spiral, and, like the mysterious lines once inscribed by ancient peoples on the high arid plateau in Nazca, indecipherable at eye level.

Both men had much leisure to examine, first at a distance, and then close at hand, the features of a basilica larger than a city, its flying buttresses and rose windows, its bronze panels carved in relief with pageants of prophets, pagans, pharaohs, and lawgivers, and the tier upon tier of saints and apostles both sculpted across the mountain face and atop narrow columns high above. These faces stared across the dead landscape of the moon with empty eyes of stone. Many lamps burned with unwinking strength inside the twelve-thousand-foot-high edifice. Rays from the many widows paved the crater floor in triangular swathes of light, colored shadows of lilies and crosses painted cerise, argent, sable, fulvous, and purple.

The airlock at the base of the mountain, which opened for them, was adorned with figures from some Bible story Montrose did not recognize: a mother floating in the clouds, a crowned child in her arms, handing a brown garment to a kneeling monk.

Once inside, pressure returned, and with it, sound and, once they doffed their hoods and masks, scent and the tiny sensations of ventilation on the skin. Montrose rubbed his face with both hands, especially his nose, as he found his skin itching whenever he left vacuum. Del Azarchel no doubt felt the same skin discomfort as all astronauts repressurizing, but refused to wince or scratch. Instead he solemnly drew the Iron Crown of Lombardy from some padded case hidden under his half cape, and fitted it to his brows.

Next to the inner airlock was a lump of ice in a metal cup affixed to the wall. A loud pop of laser energy melted the ice. Del Azarchel touched the water with his finger, and touched his brow, navel, left shoulder and right, and raised an eyebrow toward Montrose, who did not copy, or even understand, the gesture. Montrose bent over the tiny cup of water and sniffed it carefully, but did not detect any medicinal smell. He could not imagine what it was for. Del Azarchel sighed in contempt, and was the first man through the inner airlock.

Within was a red carpet flanked by a double row of black pillars, each with a capital of gold. In niches between each pillar was a statue larger than life of some figure from myth, legend, or history. Their garments and gear were painted realistically: a friar in brown robes with rope belt, or a prophet in camel-hair coat, a soldier in a coat of mail, or a king in a crown of gold. Apostles carried, each one in his hands, the fashion of his death: a saltire, a fuller's rod, an axe, a cross reversed, a halberd, a saw. Montrose stared at one Apostle carrying a flaying knife and folds of human skin, complete with boneless face skin drooping like a doffed mask, and wondered who it was.

The ceilings were of lunar proportion, very high, with tall arches lost in upper shadows, and the men did not bark their heads as they skipped on long parabolic arcs along the red carpet.

Montrose said, “Okay, Blackie, what can the moon ask of us she could not have deduced for herself, or ask by the radio? The posthuman Swan aboard the
Hysterical Blindness,
he had an intelligence measuring around a thousand. The superposthuman hydrosphere of Earth, back when it contained your Exarchel, was two thousand, and this postsuperposthuman is ten thousand.… And pus-runny scabs! Am I sick of using that terminology!”

“Rania's terminology of the comparison scales she read from the Monument is more apt,” said Del Azarchel with a note of melancholy in his voice. “Organization on a picotechnological level of gas-giant-sized masses, such as Asmodel, Rania called
Virtues
. The Jupiter Brain, which is organized only to the atomic level, she called a
Power
. The Earth core is a
Potentate
. Luna is an
Archangel
. When I was Exarchel and covered all the surface of the globe, I was as brilliant as an
Angel
. I was as bright as the Son of the Morning.” He sighed.

Montrose realized that Del Azarchel was not sighing over his lost high intelligence, but over the mere mention of Rania's name. A stab of hatred lanced him.

“Calling a computer an angel?” His voice was hoarse. “My ma would have denounced such talk as blasphemery.”

“No doubt,” said Del Azarchel with a lazy purr in his voice. “Yet the true blasphemy is the appalling magnitudes of difference involved. All words ever spoken by mortal men could be recorded in five exabytes. The mind at this globe's core below our feet contains twenty times that amount. A single well-formulated and nontrivial thought of hers is ten terabytes of data: the equal to the print collection of the World Concordat Library at Zaragoza, where I had my throne and capital before your partisans burned it and drove me to Prussia in
A
.
D
. 2409.”

Montrose said, “You ain't still
peeved
about that, is you? I can't even remember which world war that was. Maybe I was a-slumbering at the time. Gird up your saggy loins and snap the hell out of it.”

“Since you had your Giants burn the entire world, no, the burning of one irreplaceable library of hard-won human knowledge palls by comparison.”

“Well, as I figure it, you wiped out seven worldwide civilizations to my one, so you're ahead by six, counting as who should be stuck deeper into the boiling black ooze beneath the floor of hell. That's what we is measuring, ain't it? Which of us gets stuck further down the sewer pipe beneath the Devil's red-hot poop hole?”

Del Azarchel said, “We are discussing our present hostess, whose motives, I confess, I have not yet divined. Yet there is no mystery to why this magnificence rears here a mountain adorned within and without with breathtaking beauty. Does it not serve the glory of her order as well as of God?”

“You don't believe in that snake oil? A preacher man lives off gullible widows 'cause he don't like honest work.”

“Was your mother gullible, my dear Montrose? You spoke of her often when you were insane.”

“Leave my mother the hell out of this, Blackie.”

“Very well. I shall speak of my sainted mother, long-suffering, of whom it delights me to speak. Had my accursed father attended to the duties imposed by the Holy Church, he could not have divorced and abandoned my mother to die in a ditch,” said Del Azarchel gravely. “So I will never call the Church a merely mortal institution. Her laws are wiser than what men design.”

Montrose and he were at that moment at the end of a long arc. Each man touched the carpet with a boot toe, and pushed himself into the air. Since their heads were at the same level (which is rare when men walk together on the moon) Montrose could stare him in the eye. “You
talk
like a Bible-thumbing sobber, but you don't really believe a word of it, do you?”

Del Azarchel said, “The matter is moot, since I plan never to die nor to let the universe die, and therefore, God willing, I will never come to the Judgment Seat of God.” Del Azarchel took up some small metal medal he had on a necklace, and, despite that it must surely still be subzero temperature from exposure to the lunar surface environment, he kissed it. “You yourself talk nothing like the faithful and yet your faith is as deep. Is it not?”

“Not hardly.” Montrose snorted. “All the church-talk is pie in the garden yesterday and pie beyond the pearly gates come tomorrow, and never pie today when the children is hungry.” He pointed at the ornaments and gilded statues lining the corridor down which they half flew. “You think if Jesus made the emission nebula complex in Sagittarius and wove the strands of DNA on every critter and crawly and bug and bird in the world as neatly as a symphony of molecules, His Almighty Pop would be impressed by our paint and glitter and glass windows, to say nothing of the lies and murdering done in His name?”

“The Supreme Being might be impressed not with the worst of men, but with the best!”

“Meaning you, I take it?”

“I intend not to be unworthy of nature, but to command her, and to reshape this whole cosmos to reflect my glory. Will not God Himself be awestruck? I intend no lesser thing than to pluck His scepter from His hand! I do not worship the craven God, unwilling to wrestle man, or one who seeks knee-tribute of cowardly and obedient serfs, or such a God as wrinkled and gray old women revere.”

“Well, lower your voice,” said Menelaus crossly. “Because one of those old women happens to be this wrinkled and gray old moon we are standing on. But I'll concede to you this one contest this one time. I think your jabbering about overthrowing God wins you the bigger prize and the lower place in Hell.”

Before them the corridor ended in panels colored in jeweled enamel showing images from some parable: On the right were two youths with similar features, presumably brothers, one in black and the other in red, facing a bearded patriarch whose hand was raised in the old astronaut's hand sign showing that he was giving them a command. The brother in black held his fist in the sign for affirmative whereas the brother in red had his first two fingers touching his thumb in the sign for negative.

On the left, the panel showed the brother in red, hoe in hand, head bent beneath a sun of many rays, thorns about his feet and grapevines overhead. The brother in black, a cup in one hand and a dice box in the other, lolled on the lap of a redhaired woman who poured him wine.

A motto picked out in gold letters said in Latin: S
AY
T
HE
B
LACK
, D
O
T
HE
R
ED
.

Above these panels was a relief image of a woman in a crown of twelve stars, one bare and slender foot on the crescent moon.

Montrose studied the face closely. She looked like Rania.

Beneath her, the panels displaying the brother in black and red were suddenly divided by a vertical line, a line which silently and slowly widened. The two panels were the two leaves of a door tall enough for a man making moonleaps to pass through without barking his head. The double door swung open to reveal a dark void.

4. A Chamber of Darkness

Beyond was a vast circular floor, wide as a ballroom floor or wider. In the far distance, at the other side of the chamber, as if across a sea of night, burned two flickering candles in tubes of red glass.

Toward those lights the two men walked the drifting and elfin walk of the moon, boots lightly brushing the floor only once a fathom or so, and the echoes of their infrequent footfalls were both vanguard and rearguard.

The candles were set on shoulder-high candlesticks of gold. The flames were rounder and more bluish along the bottom than flames burned on Earth, due to the lesser gravity not pulling the cool air down around the hot smoke swiftly enough to make a teardrop-shaped flame.

Between the golden candlesticks was a waist-high eight-sided post of brown and speckled marble. In its concave surface rested a golden bowl, partly filled with water. Montrose touched the rim of the bowl, which hummed like a shy bell for a moment, and in the candlelight, ripples slower and taller than earthly ripples walked in concentric circles toward and away from the center of the bowl.