The Storm of Echoes

by Christelle Dabos

  It was only once she was sure Octavio really was Octavio that she felt touched by his words. She noticed that he hadn’t replaced the gold chain that Fearless-and-Almost-Blameless had torn off him and knew instantly that he never would. That item of jewelry was the visible sign of his filiation to a Lord of LUX. Ophelia considered Octavio her equal—and not only because he was the same age and size as her—but that wasn’t the case for all those who put him on a pedestal.

  “I’m so sorry,” she told him, sincerely. “Even here, people see you first and foremost as Lady Septima’s son.”

  Through his long, black fringe, covering half of his face, Octavio mustered a smile that was neither really joyful nor entirely sad.

  “The opinion of my friends is all that matters.”

  He poured what remained in a carafe into a glass and offered it to Ophelia. The light from the window filtered through the water and ended up quivering on the table.

  “En fait, of my only friend. What can I do for you? If it’s regarding that,” he continued, indicating the stamp on her forehead, “the press releases from the family palace haven’t yet divulged its meaning. The journal is being deluged with requests for information. I can only tell you that it concerns, almost exclusively, Goddaughters of Helen resident in Babel for less than ten years.”

  “Elizabeth explained that to me, yes.”

  Octavio’s eyes began to glow red, under the effect of his family power.

  “You’re a little disappointed,” he noted. “I can see from the way your facial muscles have gone slightly slack.”

  Ophelia crossed her arms in front of her stomach. She knew Octavio’s vision wasn’t that of a doctor but being scrutinized like this made her feel uncomfortable now. He must have noticed, since, discreetly, he looked away.

  “It’s not because I’m working, as an aspiring Forerunner, at the Official Journal, that I suddenly know everything. I’m still partly a student and am now responsible for a whole division at the Good Family. My work here consists seulement of checking the pertinence of the letters citizens send us, and nine times out of ten they’re not reliable. The Brats of Babel don’t make our task any easier by misinforming the public, thanks to their doomsaying leaflets and false rumors.”

  It was Ophelia’s turn to look carefully at him. The sun had just disappeared behind the curtains, engulfed by a sudden tide of clouds, and that shadow reinforced the one already beneath Octavio’s fringe.

  “I’m not as observant as you, but I’ve got to know you. What’s wrong?”

  Ophelia suddenly realized how tense her own shoulders had become under her gown. She tried not to think about it, but she feared that, at any moment, she could be told that Anima had disappeared. She had left her family without a word of explanation, and, although she felt she hadn’t really had a choice—what with her mother making all decisions and her father avoiding all responsibility—she regretted every day not to have told them how much she loved them.

  Octavio glanced at the other side of the room, where the critic kept hitting the radio, doubtless exasperated by the echoes. She was paying no attention to the two of them, and even if she had, her Acoustic’s ears wouldn’t have been able to hear them, keen as they were.

  “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “As I told you, Eulalia, we’re continuously receiving communiqués. Several were telegraphed to us from Totem, the ark closest to Babel. They give the impression that they, too, are experiencing difficulties, but right now it’s impossible for us to check the authenticity of the source.”

  Ophelia took a sip from her glass. The water was as boiling hot as the air, despite the ceiling fans.

  “Could the journal not send someone over there?”

  “For now, all long-distance flights are suspended. The echoes are disrupting radio communications, and no one can explain why, suddenly, they are so prolific. It’s not a problem for shorter journeys—I myself travelled here by birdtrain this morning—but flying over that great sea of clouds without any bearings is a different story.”

  “Those echoes again . . . What exactly are they?”

  This query wasn’t addressed to Octavio in particular, so Ophelia was surprised by his categorical answer:

  “They shouldn’t exist at all, and that’s precisely the problem. Technically, they’re not even echoes in the true sense of the word. A normal echo, for example, is when our voice comes back at us once it has rebounded off a wall. It’s the return of a sound wave to the source that emitted it. These echoes behave completely differently. One doesn’t hear them, one doesn’t see them. Only our technological apparatuses pick them up, accidentally. No,” Octavio concluded, solemnly, “those echoes don’t travel on the same wavelength as ours. There’s nothing normal about them. And even worse, they’ve become dangerous.”

  And yet, Ophelia reflected, according to Lazarus they were “the key to it all.”

  “Here, at the journal,” Octavio continued, “we know, however, that a convoy of airships was readied last night. An initiative of the Lords of LUX. They seem to be considering leaving Babel. Maybe they’ve found a way to get around the echoes problem with the navigation systems? We await the official communiqués to know more.”

  Every time Octavio mentioned the Lords of LUX, the thought of his mother could be heard in his voice. His eyelids closed, like two candle-snuffers on the flames of his eyes, but even like that he seemed able to see through them.

  “I have to check the authenticity of all the communiqués,” he repeated. “All, apart from those issued by LUX, and thus from almost all of the institutions. The Lords’ word is never questioned. Has the city ceased to be transparent, or is it only my vision that has changed?”

  Ophelia was brought back to reality by the chiming of the table clock. Judging by the time, Thorn must have already assumed his new duties.

  “I have a favor to ask you. It’s both tricky for you and important to me.”

  She took a deep breath, searching for her words. If Octavio considered her a friend, the feeling was mutual. She would have liked to confide in him, but that wasn’t possible without her mentioning the Genealogists’ mission, and thereby compromising Thorn. She couldn’t tell him the truth, but she didn’t want to lie to him, either. She thought back to the doctor’s words at her physical—she was constantly thinking of them, in fact—and decided to use them as a compromise.

  “I’ve been advised to attend the Deviations Observatory. As a subject of study. You once spoke to me of your sister, Second. You told me that you visited her over there every Sunday. You know how that institution works better than I do. What advice can you give me?”

  Octavio reopened his eyes, as if Ophelia had just thrown the rest of her glass of water in his face.

  “My break is over,” he declared, sharply.

  As soon as they rose from the table, the silence burst like a bubble. The journalist’s typewriter sounded as loud as percussion, drowning out the muffled voice from the radio: “. . . a musical feat of which only . . . of which only Romulus is capable, rivaling the fingering technique of the very greatest . . . very greatest Tactiles in the city.” Octavio made straight for the main exit, the wings on his boots clicking at each stride. Ophelia followed right behind, not really knowing if their conversation was over, or not. Along the way, she bumped into a journalist hurling a pile of photographs into the wastepaper basket and shouting that they were all ruined, and that until this echo problem was resolved, he couldn’t do his job anymore. Ophelia picked up a photograph that had fallen on the floor and saw that, indeed, the image was duplicated to such an extent one couldn’t even make out what it was supposed to represent.

  “Hugo, let’s go.”

  Octavio had given this order to one of the automatons lined up in the large hall. He had no expression, having no face, but seemed to set off reluctantly, while his stomach let out a “No news is good new
s.” Across his body he carried what resembled a post-bag. An aerial stood up on top of his head, and a telegraphic device had been fitted into his chest.

  “Hugo gathers the communiqués I have to verify,” Octavio explained, holding the door for Ophelia. “He also functions like the Public Signaling Guides to direct me to the right address. If you’re not pressed for time, come with us.”

  His tone was curt, but less so than she had feared.

  Outside, all was white. The high tide had caused an avalanche of clouds to stream between the marble facades. Ophelia exchanged a complicit wave with Ambrose, whose barely visible wheelchair remained parked in front of the steps, and then she plunged into the clouds behind Octavio and the automaton. Her glasses were instantly covered in mist. She couldn’t see a thing anymore, bumping into passersby and fire hydrants. A few steps in the street were enough to drench her gown with humidity. She could almost feel her hair curling up on her head.

  “I didn’t see my sister growing up.”

  Octavio’s voice, somewhere to her left, was dampened as much by bitterness as by fog. His wary steps made his wings jingle.

  “I wasn’t even there when she was born,” he continued, speaking fast. “I was being educated at a boarding school, with Pollux’s Cadets, with never a visit from my parents. To be honest with you, I didn’t know my mother was pregnant. The day she announced to me that I had a little sister was also the day I discovered that our father had gone. I never even asked to see Second. It didn’t really bother me that she was abnormal; I resented her for shattering our stability. When my mother did come to see me at the boarding school, to let me know that she had sent my sister to the Deviations Observatory, I just thought: “Tant mieux, good riddance.”

  Ophelia could barely see Octavio, whose midnight-blue uniform, blanked out by the surrounding whiteness, was speeding ahead in front of her. Hugo himself was struggling to follow him, repeating in a metallic voice: “FOLLOW THE GUIDE, PLEASE!” Ambrose’s wheelchair accompanied them at a distance, with its unmistakable mechanical clickety-clack.

  “It took me some time to want to meet her,” continued Octavio. “I finally visited her at the observatory, without my mother knowing. I, who claimed to know everything, realized that I knew nothing about this girl who shares my blood. I returned there, again and again, but she remains an enigma to me. She ceased to belong to my world the day she entered that observatory.”

  Like two headlights, Octavio’s eyes suddenly turned on Ophelia.

  “Don’t go there.”

  “I’ve no intention of staying more than—”

  “You don’t understand,” Octavio interrupted her. “Entering there is easy, getting out, far less so. Once you are part of their system, you are automatically placed under their guardianship. You give up your freedom of movement, and your right to communicate with the outside world, apart from visits, and they are strictement controlled. In short, you belong to them.”

  Ophelia’s whole body stiffened. Infiltrating the observatory would force her to sacrifice what little free will she had garnered over the years.

  “I deplored the city’s lack of transparency,” Octavio continued, sternly, “but there’s no comparison with the obfuscation that reigns over there.”

  In contrast to these words, a burst of sunlight flooded the bridge they were just crossing. There were fewer people here than on the main avenues. This unexpected light, between two waves of clouds, made the humid grass sprouting between the cobblestones sparkle; it had no effect on Octavio’s dark skin, hair, and uniform.

  Ophelia didn’t want to cause him any trouble. Yet she couldn’t hold back her question:

  “Have you ever heard of the Horn of Plenty?”

  Taken aback, Octavio frowned.

  “Bien sûr! It’s a mythological reference. The Horn of Plenty varies from one ark to another, sometimes a plate, sometimes a bowl, sometimes a conch, but the principle remains the same: it confers abundance on whoever possesses it. What’s that got to do with what we were talking about?”

  “You say it varies from one ark to another. I’d like to know what exactly it represents here, in Babel.”

  Octavio stopped so suddenly in the middle of the bridge that Hugo crashed into him, spouting: “A FRIEND IS A PATH, AN ENEMY A WALL.” Octavio met Ophelia’s gaze through her glasses. She knew he was using his family power to decipher the fluttering of her eyelashes, steadiness of her irises, dilation of her pupils.

  “Here, the Horn of Plenty is closely linked to all that is forbidden. According to one version of the legend, from before the Rupture, men and women coveted it so much that they . . . they caused harm to one another.”

  In Babel, no term belonging to the lexicon of violence was to be uttered in public. Even the word “crime” was a crime.

  “The Horn of Plenty deemed them to be unworthy of it, and so buried itself where no one would be able to find it,” concluded Octavio. “It awaits the time when humanity will finally show itself to be deserving of its blessings. The last time you asked me such ludicrous questions, it almost ended very badly. Is there something I should know?”

  His mouth demanded the truth, his eyes were scared.

  “No,” said Ophelia.

  She had no idea what she was entering into; she had no right to drag Octavio along with her, once again.

  In the meantime, she still couldn’t see what this Horn of Plenty had to do with the story. However, if Eulalia Gonde had worked on a project named after it, if the Other was linked to that, and if the Deviations Observatory was in the midst of conducting the same experiments at this precise moment, then Ophelia had to get herself over there as fast as possible, and too bad if that meant her temporarily becoming its prisoner.

  “From the very first day, I found that there was something disturbing about you,” Octavio said to her, screwing up his eyes. “I’ve finally grasped what it was. Whatever your objectives, you were always determined to reach them. As for me, I adapted so willingly to the path set by my mother that I don’t know what I really want. I envy you. Maintenant, if you don’t mind, I have a little job to do.”

  Indeed, Hugo had stopped outside the entrance to a windmill, on the other side of the bridge, and was tapping the ground impatiently with his articulated foot. If automatons were capable of developing a personality, Ophelia would have been inclined to think that this one was bad-tempered. From a distance, she signaled again in the direction of Ambrose’s wheelchair; he seemed to be hesitating between coming closer and keeping his distance. She herself wasn’t too sure what she was supposed to do now. Looking professional, Octavio knocked on the door, with no longer a thought for her.

  “Good day, my lady,” he said, when an elderly miller’s wife came to the door. “I have come about this.”

  Octavio showed her the telegram that Hugo had extracted with a metallic grunt.

  “No, thanks,” said the miller’s wife.

  She closed the door. Octavio shot a furious glance at Ophelia, defying her to laugh, and then knocked until the old lady reopened to him.

  “I must insist, my lady. I am here on behalf of the Official Journal. You sent this telegram to us yesterday.”

  The miller’s wife frowned, producing an impressive eddy of wrinkles. She put on large pince-nez and took a look at the telegram.

  “Désolée. I took you for another of those ‘Brats,’ as they call themselves. They’ve already been here twice this morning with their leaflets. Have you taken a good look at me, young man? Celebrating the end of the world? At my age?”

  “You stated that you had witnessed the landslide,” said Octavio, unperturbed. “I will need some details.”

  “It wasn’t a landslide.”

  Ophelia was struck by the miller’s wife’s confidence in asserting that. She also noticed the impressive length of her tongue, an indication that she belonged to the genea
logical branch of the Gustatories. As for Octavio, he was focusing on the most microscopic changes in her expression. He was assessing her sincerity.

  “Wasn’t your telegram about the landslide that swept away the northwestern district of the city?”

  “Yes, yes, young man. I was at the spice market, for my curry-flavored bread, when it happened. What’s more, it was pouring with rain. Except it wasn’t a landslide.”

  “What was it, then, in your opinion?”

  “Well, I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s your job to tell me, isn’t it?”

  “You will make that easier for me, my lady, by giving me more details.”

  “What do you want me to tell you? One moment the ground was there, the next it wasn’t. It barely shook my bones. Not like it had cracked, little by little, before giving way. More like it . . . like an invisible mouth had swallowed it all up in one go,” said the miller’s wife, miming a snapping of jaws. En tout cas, there was nothing natural about it.”

  If Octavio seemed skeptical, Ophelia was shivering all over, despite the heat. An invisible mouth. The Other’s mouth? Could a reflection possess such a mouth?

  “Did you notice someone or something?” she couldn’t help but interject. “Anything that might have struck you as unusual?”

  “Nothing at all,” replied the miller’s wife. “Everything was exactly as it usually is. You don’t believe me because of that?” she asked, indignantly, tapping a lens of her pince-nez. “I may not be a Visionary, but I saw what I’m telling you as clear as I see the light on your forehead, là.”