City of Golden Shadow (61 page)

"That's fair, Daddy."

He felt his heart quicken. The sandstorm which had briefly swept across the red desert was failing, and through its dying flurries he could see the great, squat shape of the temple.

It was huge and curiously low, a great fence of columns, an immense grin set in the vast dead face of the desert. Osiris himself had designed it that way, and apparently it suited the Other. This was his tenth visit to the place, and the temple remained unchanged.

His great barque slowly drifted toward its mooring. Figures dressed all in billowing white, with masks of white muslin stretched over their features, caught the rope thrown by the captain and pulled the boat toward shore. A line of musicians, similarly faceless, blossomed into existence on either side of the road, plucking at harps, blowing on flutes.

Osiris waved his hand. A dozen muscular Nubian slaves appeared, naked but for loincloths and dark as grapeskin, already sweating in the desert heat. Silently, they bent and lifted the god's golden litter and carried it down the quay toward the temple road.

He closed his eyes and let the gentle swaying put him deeper into his contemplative mood. He had several questions, but he did not know how many he would get to ask, so he had to decide in advance which were the most important. The attending musicians played as he passed. They also sang, a quiet up-and-down murmuring that hymned the glories of the Ennead and especially its master.

He opened his eyes. The massive temple seemed to rise out of the desert as he approached, stretching on either side to the limits of the horizon. He could almost sense the nearness of its inhabitant . . . its prisoner. Was it only the force of anticipation and the familiarity of his habitual progress, or could the Other actually make himself felt through what should be the unbreachable walls of the new mechanism? Osiris did not like that idea.

The litter made its slow way up the ramp, climbing until even the great river seemed only a thread of murky brown. The Nubians bearing him groaned softly-a small detail, but Osiris was a master of the particular and took joy in these tiny bits of authenticity. They were only Puppets, of course, and were not actually lifting anything. In any case, they would no more groan of their own accord than they would ask to be moved into a different simulation.

The slaves carried him through the massive door and into the cool shadows of the antechamber, a hypostyle hall lined by tall columns. Everything was painted white and covered with the words of spells which would calm and restrain the temple's inhabitant. A figure lay prostrate on the floor before him, and did not look up even when the god's processional music reached a feverish pitch and then fell silent. Osiris smiled. This high priest was a real person-a Citizen, as it was so quaintly put. The god had chosen him very carefully, but not for his abilities as an actor, so Osiris was glad to see he remembered at least some proper comportment.

"Up," he said. "I am here." The bearers stood resolutely, holding the litter now without a tremble. It was one thing for his Nubians to simulate human frailty when he was on the move, but there were times when he did not wish to be pitched around like a saint's icon being carried down a steep Italian street, and facing a living underling was such a time. It was not conducive to dignity.

"O, Lord of Life and Death, by whose hand the seed is germinated and the fields are renewed, your servant bids you welcome." The priest stood and made several ritual obeisances.

"Thank you. How is he today?"

The priest folded his arms across his chest as if hugging himself for warmth. The god guessed it was a gesture of actual physical unease, not a response to the simulation: as carefully as with every other detail, Osiris had made sure that the temple sweltered in desert heat. "He is . . . active, sir," the priest said. "O Lord, I mean. He's driven the readings up as high as they've been for some time. I wanted to take the container temperature down a few more degrees, but I'm afraid that if we go any colder, we'll risk losing him altogether." The priest shrugged. "In any case, I thought it best to talk to you first."

Osiris frowned, but only at the anachronistic language. It was impossible to make technicians remember where they were for very long-or, rather, where they were supposed to be. Still, this one was the best he'd found; allowances had to be made. "You did well. Do not adjust the temperature. It is possible he knows that I am coming and it has excited him. If he remains too active when I have finished-well, we shall see."

"Go ahead, then, sir. I've opened the connection." The priest backed out of the way.

Osiris made a gesture and was carried forward to the stone doorway on which the great cartouche of Lord Set had been carved, each hieroglyph as tall as one of the Nubian bearers. He gestured again and the music fell silent. The door swung open. The god left his litter and floated through the doorway into the darkened cavern beyond.

Osiris drifted toward the massive black marble sarcophagus, which stood alone in the middle of the empty, rough-hewn chamber, its lid carved to resemble a sleeping figure with the body of a man and the head of an unrecognizable beast. He hovered before it for a moment, composing his thoughts. A pulse of orange light leaked through the crack between coffin and lid, as though in greeting.

"I am here, my brother," he said. "I am here, Lord Set."

There was a crackling hiss and a moment of grating noise that hurt the god's ears. The words, when they came, were almost unrecognizable.

". . . Not . . . brother. . . ." There was another rush of interference. "Tiyuh . . . t-time . . . too slow. Slowwww. Want . . . want. . . ."

As always, Osiris felt the distant distress signals from his real body, far away and safe in its soothing fluids. It was fear, stark fear racing through him, making his nerves flare and his limbs twitch. It was the same every time he heard that inhuman croaking.

"I know what you want." He forced himself to keep his mind on what he had come to do. "I am trying to help you. You must be patient."

". . . Hear . . . blood-sound. Sm-sm- smell voices . . . want light."

"I will give you what you want. But you must help me. Do you remember? Our bargain?"

There was a deep, wet moaning. For a moment the sarcophagus shimmered before the god's eyes, individual monads separating like an exploded diagram. Within, in a shadow deeper than ordinary darkness, something smoldered with its own faint light, something twisted that writhed like an animal. For a moment its outline shifted again, and he thought he could see a single eye staring out of the whirling chaos. Then the whole thing shivered and the sarcophagus was back, as solid and black as simulation engineering could make it appear.

". . . Remember . . . trick. . . ." If the oozing, rattling voice could be said to have expression, the Other sounded almost sullen, but some far deeper fury seemed to be bubbling beneath, a thought that made Osiris suddenly wish he could swallow.

"There was no trick. You would not be alive without my help. And you will never be free without my help either. Now, I have some questions for you."

There was another burst of cacophony. When it had quieted, the voice came grinding and scraping again. ". . . Bird . . . from . . . your cage. Primary . . . and the running. . . ." The sound became unintelligible.

"What? What does that mean?"

The sarcophagus shuddered. For a split second it had too many facets, too many angles. The voice lurched and slurred like a piece of equipment with dying batteries. ". . . From other side . . . voices are . . . soon. Coming,"

The god's fear was mixed with frustration."Who's coming? From the other side? What does that mean?"

This time, it sounded almost human-as close as it ever came. "Other . . . side . . . of . . . everything." It laughed-at least Osiris thought it was a laugh-a deep, soggy crunching that abruptly squealed up into an almost inaudible steady tone.

"I have questions!" the god shouted, "I have important decisions to make. I can make things go even slower if you don't cooperate." He searched his mind for a suitable threat. "I can keep you this way forever!"

At last it returned and spoke to him. In the end, it answered several of his questions, but not always in ways that he found useful. In between the few comprehensible phrases, it cried and hissed and sometimes bayed like a dog. Once it spoke to him in the voice of someone he had known who was now dead.

When the audience was finished, the god did not bother with his litter or his bearers or even the great river. He went directly and instantly to his hall in Abydos-That-Was, extinguished all the lights, banished all the priests, and sat for a very long while in darkness and silence.

CHAPTER 21

NETFEED/NEWS: Mars Funding Shaky

(visual: Martian skyline, Earth on horizon

VO: The ancient human dream of conquering Mars may be coming to an end, brought down by funding problems,

(visual: MBC robots at work on Martian surface)

Now that its two largest corporate sponsors, ANVAC and Telemorphix, have ended their involvement, the Mars Base Construction project, long a target of both left-wing and right-wing pressure groups, seems likely to lose its funding support in Congress as well. President Anford has promised to search for other business sponsorship, but his funding request to the Assembly of Governors-a presidential endorsement of the project which one UNSpace official called "pretty damn lukewarm"-is not deemed likely to move the governors, who are having trouble with their own state and city infrastructures. . . .

Renie answered on the first flash. When the screen came up black, she felt sure she knew who it would be. "Irene Sulaweyo?"

"So you know my work number, too." She was faintly nettled by this Martine woman's here-then-gone mystery. "Did you just make a lucky guess that I'd be here before school started?"

"Please remember, Ms. Sulaweyo, it was you who began this by searching for me." The French woman sounded amused. "I hope you are not going to be difficult because I have taken the initiative."

"It's not that. I just didn't expect-"

"That I would be able to find you so easily? Information is my business, if you will forgive an old cliché. And I know far more about you now than simply your work number and your whereabouts, Ms. Sulaweyo. I know your employment history, your grades in school, your salary. I know that your mother Miriam who died in the Shopper's Paradise fire was of Xhosa lineage, that your father Joseph is half-Zulu, and that he is currently listed disabled. I know about your brother Stephen in the Durban Outskirt hospital. I know what net services you subscribe to, what books you download, even what kind of beer your father drinks."

"Why are you telling me this?" she said tightly.

"Because I wanted you to know that I am thorough. And because I needed to find out these things for myself, to find out who you really were, before I could talk to you."

This time she could not keep the fury from her voice. "So I passed the test? Thank you. Merci."

There was a long pause. When the mystery woman spoke, her voice was gentler. "You came looking for me, Ms. Sulaweyo. I am sure you value your privacy. So do I."

"So where do we go from here?"

"Ah." Martine Desroubins was suddenly businesslike. "That is an excellent question. I think a controlled exchange of information is in order. You said that you got my name through Susan Van Bleeck. I had hoped to speak to her about a subject which interests me. Perhaps you and I, we share this interest?"

"What subject-what interest is that?"

"First things first." The invisible woman sounded as though she were settling in. "Tell me again what happened to Susan. And this time, tell me the whole truth, please."

It was a laborious process, but not an entirely unpleasant one. The woman on the other end was grudging with information, but there were hints of a dry wit and perhaps even a kind heart hiding behind the reserve.

According to Martine Desroubins, she had received a call from Susan after Renie's visit, but had not been able to talk at the time. The postponed conversation had never occurred. Renie did not divulge the doctor's deathbed message, but after she described her brother's illness, her attempts to discover its cause, and the strange city-virus left on her machine, the other woman was quiet for a long moment. Renie could sense a sort of turning point, as though a chess game played through its opening moves was finally beginning to take its real shape.

"Was Doctor Van Bleeck calling me because she thought I could help with the problem of your brother? Or just help identify this strange city?"

"I don't know. She never told me what she wanted to talk to you about. There was also a book-she left a note behind with the title."

"Ah, yes, I remember you began to tell me about the book. Could you tell me the title?"

"Early Mesoamerica. By someone named Bolivar Atasco."

This time the pause was shorter. "The name sounds somewhat familiar. Have you examined the book?"

"I downloaded it, but I can't see anything relevant I haven't had much chance to really look, though."