Angel City (24 page)

He listened to the voice again.

It wasn't echoing off the walls. It was drifting like some disembodied thing. Then, like a ton of bricks . . .
wham
, Harper knew. He lowered his head and whispered:
“Cum tacent clamant.”

The words passed his lips and rose through the cavern, chasing after Gilles Lambert's voice.

. . . cum tacent clamant, cum tacent clamant . . .

“Who's there?”

“It's just me, Gilles.”

“What . . . what were those words? It sounds like Latin.”

“That's right.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means: ‘When they are silent, they cry out.'”

“Such strange words.”

Harper concentrated, trying to find the man's voice. There—no—over there.

“Gilles?”

“Oui?”

“Where are you just now?”

“The other side of the cavern.”

“How did you get there?”

“Quoi?”

“You were next to me when they . . . when they drugged us. How did you get to the other side of the cavern?”

“Oh, that.”

Harper could tell the man didn't want to say it.

“Tell me, Gilles.”

“When you started talking to yourself about killing people, I thought you might wake up and kill me. I was so terrified, I soiled myself. So I just crawled away.”

“Why didn't you just keep going?”

“How?”

“You're the best cataphile in Paris, aren't you? You know these tunnels like the back of your hand, remember? You could've tried to find your way using your hands.”

“
Oui
, I remember. And I remember wanting to try. But I thought it best to sit here and wait.”

“For what?”

“I don't know. But that's what I thought. And then I felt I would never leave this place. It was an odd feeling. I've spent so much time down here, and now I would be here forever. Then I thought about my Laguiole pocket knife. It was a gift from my father; I always carry it. I thought I might carve my name into the wall with the knife, in case someone found me.”

. . . someone found me, found me, found me . . .

Silence.

“What were we talking about, monsieur?”

“We were talking about how you got to the other side of the cavern. Which reminds me, which way did you go?”

“Pardon?”

“Clockwise, counterclockwise?”

“Clockwise.
Non
, the other way. Why?”

Harper struggled to his feet, touched the black stone wall with the fingers of his right hand. “Because I'm coming over to you.”

“Pourqoui?”

. . . pourquoi, pourquoi, pourquoi . . .

Harper stepped through the absolute dark, following the echoing sound, slowly, as if expecting to step into a bottomless pit any second.

“For one, it'll take less effort to talk to each other if we're closer.”

“But it isn't an effort, monsieur, really it's not. I'm fine where I am. Please don't come near me.”

Harper stopped.
His soul knows; his mind can't accept it.

“Be not afraid, Gilles.”

There was that delay in response that always came when human beings heard those words from one of Harper's kind. The words echoed and drifted till they found Lambert.

“I don't understand what that means, monsieur. I hear the words, but I don't know what they mean.”

The man's voice had settled. Harper stepped softly, not wanting to chase it away. He squeezed his eyes closed, reaching for shreds of radiance. He saw the tablet—just for a microsecond, but it was enough.

“Just listen to my voice. This isn't a place of evil, Gilles, it never was. The bodies you found here were those of warriors, slain in battle.”

Silence.

“What battle? When?”

“Good guys, bad guys. A hundred and thirty thousand years ago. The battle took place directly above us, wherever the pillar of the cavern is pointing. The good guys lost, and the ones that were captured were slaughtered. The good guys that survived returned at night and collected the bodies. They covered them in oils to preserve them and laid them in these coves.”

“How do you know this?”

“It was written on the tablet, the one on the pillar. The whole story.”

“You remember it?”

“I can see it now.”

“So . . . so this place is a burial chamber?”

“That's right.”

“And the thing they found? The sextant? The priest called it a sacred treasure, he said you brought it here. But it was ancient, it looked—”

“Thousands of years old.”

“
Oui.
How could you have brought it here? How could you have known about this place already?”

“I think Astruc's got the wrong . . . the wrong guy. I think he only needed one of my kind to pull it off.”

“One of your kind?”

“That's right.”

Silence.

“Monsieur?”

“Yes?”

“What you are telling me, none of it is possible.”

“Trust me, mate, spend enough time watching the world go by and you learn just because something isn't possible, doesn't mean it can't happen.”

“But there were no people here a hundred thirty thousand years ago, monsieur. The first human settlements didn't appear in France until 5000
BC
. No one lived in the region of Paris until 15
BC
.”

“You know your history.”

“I was very good in history, monsieur.”

“Well, all I can tell you is these warriors weren't from here. They were from another place.”

“Another country?”

“Bit farther. A lot farther, actually.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't need to understand, Gilles. You only need to listen to my voice and trust me. There's nothing to fear about this place.”

Harper was next to Gilles Lambert now. He pressed his back into the wall and eased down next to the man. The man didn't move.

“I'm very sorry for the smell, monsieur.”

“Don't be. I've been in a few trenches. It happens. I'm sure it's happened to me more than once.”

“You were a soldier? You have been in war?”

“Many times.”

“Have you . . . Have you killed in war, monsieur?”

“Yes.”

“Many times?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“You're one of them, aren't you, monsieur?”

“Sorry?”

“Those warriors from another place. You are one of them, and that's how you know about this place. It was the battle between good and evil as told in the Holy Bible. I understand now. You were one of the survivors, you helped bury the dead. They were the angels of God.”

“Gilles . . .”

“That's why the priest called you the angel who saved Paris. He knew. And . . . and that's why the pillar opened when you placed the palms of your hands to the clay tablet. It was . . . it was a miracle, because . . . because you are an angel of God.”

Harper whispered, “Gilles, it wasn't a miracle.”

“
Non?
Then what was it?”

“Manipulations of frequencies based on mathematical equations that affect the behavior of observed matter.”

“Quoi?”

“Quantum mechanics, Gilles. That's all it was. That's all miracles have ever been.”

“I don't understand.”

“Miracles, gods, angels. Those are just names, Gilles. You need to let go of them. They're not important anymore.”

“Pourquoi il-faut pas d'importance?”

“Because names are things of the living.”

. . . of the living, the living, the living . . .

Silence.

“Am I dead?”

“You're hanging on, but yeah, this is the time of your death.”

“The priest, he killed me?”

“Yes.”

“But he couldn't kill you, because of what you are.”

Good point,
Harper thought.
What the hell am I still doing here?
Then he recalled his undefined metaphysical condition. You die in your form, boyo, but your form keeps coming back. Sounds swell, except for the fact there wasn't enough radiance in paradise to keep him going. Soon enough, the very form keeping him alive would crush and extinguish the last trace of light trapped inside. A wave of nausea washed over Harper, and he fought for breath . . .
Christ, the weight.

“No, Gilles, I'm dying, too. It's just different for me.”

“How can you be dying? No one can kill an angel.”

“Trust me.”

Silence.

“But I cannot be dead, monsieur. I'm talking to you.”

“You are, and you aren't,” Harper said.

“I really don't understand.”

“You don't need to. You just need to know you're not alone. I'm here just now, and I'm going to help you.”

“How?”

“All you have to do is look into my eyes.”

“But I can't. There isn't any light.”

Harper scraped at the last of the radiance in his blood, drew it to his eyes.

“There will be, then all will be well, I promise.”

Gilles Lambert's voice flared with panic: “But, monsieur, I can't see anything. I can't move.”

“It's all right. Hang on. I'll find you, don't worry.”

He reached through the dark, found Gilles Lambert's head, pulled him closer.

“I'm right next to you, Gilles. Just look into my eyes.”

“There's nothing. Oh, monsieur, there's nothing!”

“It must be, it has to be. Keep looking, Gilles, don't stop.”

Silence.

“Gilles?”

Harper heard the man's final breath escaping from his lungs, brushing by his face like something lost.

“No, Gilles, not yet.”

Harper let the weight of his form crush down on his eternal being. His blood pumped faster and he pulled Gilles Lambert's face close again.

“Look into my eyes, Gilles. I can make it work.”

Harper's eyes were running on empty.

“Fuck. Hold on, Gilles. Keep looking.”

The man's last breath was gone.

“No, Gilles, wait. Fucking wait.”

Harper felt himself blacking out, slumping down, losing hold of the dead man.

They're dying . . . They're all fucking dying . . .

“God dammit, no!”

Harper threw his fist through the dark, hit the stone wall, felt the bones snap and pain burn firelike through his body.

“Fuck! C'mon, fucking do it!”

He felt a spark of light in his eyes. He reached for Gilles Lambert in the absolute dark but couldn't find him.

“Gilles, where the fuck are you?”

Harper crawled over the floor, slapping the stone, the light in his eyes fading. He found the dead man curled on the floor.

“It's in my blood, Gilles, I just can't hold it in my eyes. But it's in my blood, it's . . .”

He heard Gilles Lambert's voice, still drifting through the dark.

I thought about my Laguiole pocket knife . . . a gift from my father . . .

Harper dug frantically through the dead man's pockets, found the knife, opened it. The blade was razor sharp. He made a slice across the palm of his broken right hand, set the knife between his teeth, raised the palm of his left hand to the blade and sliced across it. The blade cut deep, and Harper spit out the knife. “Christ!” He rolled the dead man onto his back, pressed his bleeding palms down onto Gilles Lambert's eyes.

“Listen to my voice, Gilles.
C'est le guet. Il a sonné l'heure. Il a sonné—
”

Something rushed through the dark, grabbed Harper's arms, and pulled him from the dead man. Then a muffled voice:
“Lachêr de lui, il est mort.”

“No! Not yet! I can save him!”

Two sets of unseen hands dragged Harper over the stone floor, shoved him hard against the wall, then a muffled voice:
“Bougez plus. Il est mort.”

Harper twisted to break free.

“He's not dead, not yet, there's fucking time!”

“C'est plus trop.”

“Let go of me!”

Harper's feet were kicked out from under him and he fell. The unseen hands caught him, lowered him to a sitting position, pinned him down. Harper pushed back.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

He felt something cover his nose and mouth.

Sissshhhh.

The muffled voice again:
“Respirz.”

Harper swung his arms, caught something with his broken hand.

“No, let go of me!”

Then a voice:
“Bougez plus et respirz.”

“Sod off!”

A fist slammed into Harper's guts, and air exploded from his lungs. He felt himself yanked upright, his nose and mouth covered again. Then another voice, English with a French accent.

“Breathe, Mr. Harper, just breathe.”

An autonomic response in his brain flashed; he sucked in the gas. Cool, pure—every muscle in his form relaxed.

“I'm giving you a mixture of pure oxygen and radiance.”

Harper felt it seeping into his blood.

“Light,” he mumbled. “I need light.”

“If we hit you with the full spectrum, the radiance in your blood will fry your optic nerves. You need to take it slow. We're going to turn on a small lamp in the UV range at three hundred nanometers. It's outside the range of human perception, but under the gas your mind will register it as dark blue. You can't look directly at it for more than ten seconds. When I tell you to close your eyes, do it. Keep them closed and continue to breathe. Nod if you understand what I'm telling you.”

Harper nodded.

“On y va.”

A pinprick of blue appeared in the absolute dark.
In the beginning,
he thought,
there was . . . no bloody idea.