by John Klima
“But your work—” Jonathan began, then stopped short.
“What of it?”
“The penny papers, monthly poetry journals—it is hardly great literature, Richard. Could you not put your talents to some more lucrative end? Could you not try to be more—well, respectable?”
“A poet lies beyond common society and everyday morality,” I replied, stiffly. And Jonathan sighed, but did not say anything more. We hired a keen young gentleman by the name of Sayers to run the day-to-day dealings of the business, and returned to our respective professions.
There came a week near to the end of November, however, when Richard took to his bed with a filthy chill and Sayers pleaded for a day off. He had an aged mother in Bognor, he said, and he wished to visit her. With extreme reluctance, I agreed to mind the funeral parlor for a day or so. And it was upon that day that I first met Madame Greco.
She was waiting for me, so the housekeeper told me, in the parlor; she had requested it especially, claiming that she felt the cold. When I entered the room, she was sitting in front of the fire with her hands folded in her lap. I had the impression of an elegant figure, clad in the appropriate purple and black of mourning, necklaced with jet. The only curious note was the lily that she wore in her bonnet: it, too, was black and velvety and at first I thought it to be no more than a lifelike ornament, until I realised that the strong sweet perfume that filled the air of the parlor was emanating from its petals.
“I do hope you’ll forgive me for imposing upon you,” the woman said. She rose, offering me a black-satin hand. “My name is Madame Greco; I have recently become a widow.”
Behind the gauzy darkness of her veil her eyes were luminous and huge. It was impossible to tell her age, or her origins; she spoke with something of an accent, but it was not one that I recognised. I was, however, immediately captivated. Something about the timbre of her voice and the almost narcotic fragrance of the lily entranced me. I bent over her hand.
“It is no trouble at all,” I said. “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.”
I thought I detected a slight smile beneath the veil.
“Damien died as he lived,” she told me. “Ever unexpected.”
“And you will be wanting—arrangements?”
She lowered her head and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief scented with violets.
“Quite so.”
“Then let us discuss the nature of the internment,” I murmured.
Madame Greco duly ordered a magnificent coffin and, pressing my hand with a pretty gratitude, left. I did not feel that this was the appropriate time to press talk of the Device upon her. I fully intended to leave a note for Sayers to remind him of this fact, but thinking about Madame Greco brought to mind a number of poetic notions, and I became distracted. In the end, no note was written.
*
It was shortly before Christmas that I set eyes on Madame Greco once more, as I was walking to our father’s house for a party. I disliked these family occasions, which usually involved a series of barbed jibes on my father’s part relating to my choice of profession. I thus took the long way through Highgate, past the cemetery, and it was already past twilight when I reached the gates. Upon glancing through the iron tracery, I was vaguely gratified to see in the dim light of the gas-lamps that a number of recent graves—in addition to handsome marble monuments—bore the small red flag and electric bell that signalled the presence of the Device. It was then that I caught sight of Madame Greco.
She was hurrying along the path that led to the edges of the cemetery, past the older mausoleums. She halted in front of an ornate tombstone in the form of a pyramid. These had been fashionable at one time, but had now fallen somewhat out of favor. I saw her run her hand over the marble facade, then move on down the hill to a much fresher patch of earth. She fell to her knees beside the grave and, moved by a pang of pity, I remained to watch her. She scrabbled at the soil.
“James?” I heard her say. “Have you woken? Do you hear me?”
I frowned. I distinctly remembered her remarking that her husband’s name was ‘Damien.’ She paused for a moment, listening, with her ear to the ground. She sighed, rose to her feet, moved on. I watched her as she visited three more graves in turn. Apparently none of them were clients of my brother, for these graves were undecorated by the Device. She scratched and clawed, until the black satin gloves were torn and her hands were bloody.
“Wake!” she whispered, “Why do you not wake?”
Then, with a start of surprise, I saw the earth at the base of the last grave begin to stir. My heart jumped.
“Damien?” I heard her fierce whisper across the silent graveyard. “Damien!”
Next moment, the soil rolled aside like a blanket and a man was standing there. I saw a white face and pale hands, before he was enveloped in a long dark coat that flapped down upon him like a shadow. Madame Greco was speaking to him in a language that I did not recognise. He turned, and I heard him begin to sniff and snuffle, like a hunting dog.
It suddenly occurred to me that I was not in the most suitable location to encounter someone newly risen from the dead. I am not ashamed to note that I turned and ran. That evening, my father’s jibes ran over me like water. I remained at his house that night, and I was not sorry to do so.
Next day, I did not wake until past three o’clock. Sitting over tea in the pale winter sunlight, I felt somewhat foolish. I had surely been mistaken, I thought. No doubt I had merely glimpsed a friend stepping out from behind the tomb, in order to comfort poor Madame Greco in her time of need. Perhaps she had become distracted in her grief, had been initially unable to find her husband’s burial place. I debated the matter for some time, before resolving to go back to the cemetery and make a few investigations.
When I reached Highgate, it was already close to twilight. I could hear the bell of St Paul’s toll out the time, a melancholy note sounding from across the river. My feet crackled on the last dead leaves; the high wall at the edge of the cemetery was half-hidden in bramble and the smoky haze of wild clematis. A flock of crows spiralled up from the path as I approached, startling me.
I found the tall point of the pyramid tomb without difficulty. I was somehow unsurprised to note that it bore the name of one Aessia Greco. I took note of the date: she had died at the age of twenty-seven, more than two hundred years before.
I touched the tomb briefly, to reassure myself that it was real, then turned to take my leave. A great dark wing swept across my face. I leaped, stumbling back against the tomb.
“Why, it’s Mr Hugo,” said a voice behind me. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
My vision cleared. It was Madame Greco, still swathed in mourning. Her face was invisible behind a heavier veil.
“No, the fault is mine. A dizzy spell,” I said. “Well, delightful to meet you once more, Madame Greco, and now I really must be on my way—”
“Please, let me help you. You’re quite faint.” She took hold of my arm. Through her thin gloves, her touch was icy cold, with a thread of subtle warmth running through it. I felt a guilty, delicious rush of desire, but I snatched my hand away. She stood like a shadow on the path. The sun had long since fallen below the horizon.
“I suggest some hot tea, Mr Hugo,” she said briskly.
“An excellent idea. I shall seek some at once. Now—”
“I think I should accompany you,” she said. The thought crept into my mind like a little serpent: what harm was there in that? We would have tea, and then we would climb the stairs to her small attic room and I would raise the veil and she would fall to her knees and—I blinked. Unruly thoughts, of a carnal nature, were flowing into my mind like water, and nothing was standing in their way. I felt myself growing flushed, heard myself stammering something.
The next thing I knew, I was sitting opposite Madame Greco. I had no idea where I might be. The room was shrouded behind curtains of ebony velvet, and lit by a single taper. In the chancy light, Madame G
reco’s face gleamed like a flame. The room smelled of dust and mould, but the furnishings were rich.
“Where am I?” I asked her.
“At my home,” I heard her say. Her voice sounded very distant, as though she spoke from the bottom of a well. She took my hand. I could feel her nails, small and sharp, through the ruined glove, and again that icy touch.
“What are you?” I asked, as if through a dream.
“You are a poet, are you not?”
“Yes, I do my poor best.”
“I direct you to Keats, therefore—the poem called The Lamia. Are you familiar with it?”
“Yes. It is a poem about a woman who preys on young men.”
“Quite so. It is a little like that with my kind. Though I prefer the term ‘seduces’. ‘Preys’ sounds so unlovely.” Her grip tightened. “We do our poor best for those we—select. We take what we need, and often they rise to join us. They have life, after all, of a sort.”
Dream-like or not, there was a voice struggling at the back of my mind, and it told me that I was in grave danger.
“But I fear you have already seen too much.” She leaned closer. I could feel no breath upon my neck. Then, through a roaring in my head, an idea came to me.
“Wait,” I said. “Indeed, I have seen too much. I watched you there, searching the graves.” This time, it was I who reached for her hand. “Searching, clawing, ruining your hands as you try to wake them. It does not always work, does it? They do not always return.”
After a moment, she shook her head.
“Would it not be easier, if you had certain knowledge of when they awoke?”
Her head moved in the fraction of a nod.
“And thus I have a proposal for you,” I whispered. I held my breath.
In the dim light, her eyes glittered with a tiny crimson flame.
“I am listening,” she said.
*
Occasionally, when my gaze falls upon the rise of Highgate Hill above the city, and I think of the scarlet flags that flutter within those walls, I wonder if I have behaved quite like a gentleman. I fear I have not. But a poet is, as I have said, beyond the common morality, and as my brother is so fond of reminding me, a business deal is a business deal, no matter with whom—or what—one transacts it.
In the Frozen City
Chris Roberson
I did it. I was responsible. Whatever blame or praise is due for what happens to the city, it falls on me.
I made the city, as surely as if I had laid every stone with my own bare hands. Not that I ever worked, not truly. When the construction of the city was begun, when I was just cresting my fortieth year, my hands had never once worn the calluses of an honest day’s work. But I paid for the city; without me, it never would have happened.
I was born to money, a platinum spoon in my mouth, and after years of dallying in the best schools wealth could buy, I saw it as my duty to expand my family’s immense holdings even further. Acquisitions, leverage buy-outs, takeovers-- “ethics” was a word I barely knew, and never used. Mine was greed for its own sake. Mine the ever-growing hoard of treasures, left to collect dust in an unmarked account overseas.
We buried my father on my thirty-eighth birthday, leaving me the last scion of our ancient line. I watched as his body was consigned to the flames in the crematorium, dutiful mourners at my side. I felt nothing, not sorrow, not anguish, my eyes dry and clear. I imagined the flesh peeling back, the bones beneath blackening slowly into ash in the heat, and still I felt nothing. When the flames had done their job, and we transported the urn to the cold marble of the family crypt, I stood before the serried ranks of my forbearers, all now gone. All had left behind wealth and accumulated power, passed from generation to generation, never lessening, all for the greater glory of the family. And all of it, now, on my shoulders, and in my hands. And still I felt nothing.
That evening, drunk on unimaginably expensive brandy, eyes stinging from the smoke of dozens of cigars each worth a laborer’s full paycheck, I sat alone in my grand study, surveying my life. A creeping realization came that not all the tears misting my eyes were caused by the smoke. I looked on my works that night, on what I had made of my life, and I wept.
What have I made, I asked myself. What do I leave behind me?
My only answer was an empty house, filled with treasure, empty of people. No friends. No wife. No family.
That night I dreamt of flames licking my heels, consigning me to ash and oblivion, forgotten, unloved and unmourned. Then I dreamt a legacy. I dreamt a city.
*
The next day I suspended all projects in which my corporation was engaged, hired an army of architects, scientists, sociologists, and artists, and began my work.
The city was my dream, my goal, my obsession. It would be my repayment for all that my family had taken over the long generations, a final recompense to balance the scales. When I died, my passing would have counted for something.
I purchased a large tract of land in New Mexico, miles to a side, had the land quickly surveyed, and ordered plans drawn up at once. Designs were debated, considered and rejected. A revolutionary waste reclamation system was developed solely for the project, and a previously unexplored energy source perfected and quickly applied to the needs of the city. Construction began just two years after the project’s inception, and continued day and night for two more years. I rested little until the city was complete, and expected the same dedication from each of those in my employ, from the highest-paid functionary to the menial laborer. All who could not meet my expectations were politely dismissed and immediately replaced.
By the time the work was done and the finishing touches completed, I’d bled dry the money my family had for so many generations hoarded. With barely enough left to support myself, I threw wide the gates of the city and settled back to watch.
I was the first inhabitant of what I’d come to call Haven. Many others joined me. Everyone who’d had any part in the city’s construction was invited first. Some resisted, sure they’d be unable to afford to live in such a paradise. The bright gleaming skyline, the carefully manicured parks, the wide, clean avenues. They thought it a playground for the rich, an exclusive retreat for those able to afford unattainable luxury.
When I announced that anyone that wished to could live in the city for free, that I expected no payment, no rent, the graceful townhouses began to fill. When I announced that no citizen would be forced to work, that they’d be fed and clothed regardless and could work only if they wished, the neat apartments in the shining towers became homes.
Soon, the city was alive, peopled by the homeless and hungry, individuals unable to work, families without food for their children. I welcomed them all. I had no screening process, no careful selection. Any and all could live in my city, as long as they did no harm to anyone else there.
At first petty theft was a problem, more out of habit than anything else. When the citizens realized that their every need was provided for, though, crime became virtually unknown.
Food was reconstituted from waste, water purified by huge processing plants. Energy in abundance was ours from the completely efficient and clean breeder reactors at the city’s perimeter. People saw work as a diversion, not a burden, filling every needed position, and the arts thrived as citizens started making full use of their abundant free time.
As the unofficial mayor of the city, I surveyed the growing prosperity from my penthouse suite in the center of the downtown area with a sense of pride. I myself found relaxation tending a garden daily in the city’s main park, marveling at the blisters and scratches on my fair hands. I made a friend of as many citizens as I could, and busied myself every week with the preparations for the parties I held in my home on Saturdays.
It was at one of these gatherings that I met Raymond. An artist with a master’s degree in fine arts, Raymond had spent the last ten years of his life on the street, subsisting entirely on charity and pity. Moving from one town to the next, he slep
t on rude cots at the Salvation Army, and ate hand-outs or scraps or not at all. Raymond had been one of the first to move into Haven, and was one of the most benefited by its existence. The works he’d produced since settling there were magnificent, staggering, and improved with each successive attempt.
We became fast friends in the months that followed, and rare was the day that passed in which we did not sit long hours discussing religion, politics, and the arts. Raymond introduced me to life, to real life, something I had before known only as an acquaintance.
It was fitting, then, that he was by my side when first I heard the news.
A secretary in charge of communication with the outside world came to me in my penthouse where I dined with Raymond and reported that some terrorist organization, I never knew which, had laid hands on a nuclear bomb, affixed it to a cruise missile, and let fly. Preliminary reports showed it angling towards the western area of the United States but, because of a baffling device built into the missile, no one was sure quite where it was heading. It might have been Los Angeles, Las Vegas, or even Haven.
Wasting no time, I rushed to an elevator, dragging Raymond behind. He began a breathless question, panting from fear and exertion, but I waved him to silence and waited. Seconds later the elevator doors opened onto a subbasement facility known only to me and a handful of the city’s designers. Raymond’s eye flashed with confusion, darting occasionally to me, asking unspoken questions.
He followed as I rushed to a large console, checked a few dials and displays, and pressed an unmarked button with a quick thrust.
Then I led Raymond up and out of the building, to explain to him and the others what I’d done.
*
When designing the city, I’d taken great pains that it should exist for a long time. It seemed to me pointless to go to such effort to produce a transitory result. I instructed a handful of researchers, then, to develop a means of protecting the city against disaster, natural or man-made. What they gave me, in the final days of the city’s construction, was the Screen.
