Asimov's Science Fiction - 2014-06

by Penny Publications

  "When I was growing up in Nantes," Verne said, his deep voice echoing easily around the room, "I used to walk, for miles at a time, around and around the city streets, my hands behind my back, my head staring without seeing at the pavement. I was day-dreaming, you see. Making up exciting stories for myself, stories I could not find in the publications my parents brought home. I made up stories about great adventures, quests and perils, pirates and wizards, of flying through the air and going deep into the bottom of the sea!"

  The audience listened on. Herb's face had the expression of a man at worship.

  "I used to dream of being a writer. Of putting these fantasies of mine into books. I had no one to talk to of my dreams. No fellow enthusiasts for such—such nonsense." He paused and seemed to look far away. "So much has changed," he said, more softly. "Our world is at a great upheaval, a maelstrom of great change. Every day a new invention becomes known to the public. Every day great minds are at work on expanding our scientific knowledge, of bettering the fate of men—and women, too, of course—" here he inclined his head at two young ladies at the front of the audience, who looked up at him admiringly, "We are riding a great wave of change, my friends. And you, all of you, who I so wish I could have known when I was growing up, when I fancied myself alone—you are all riding at the very front of that wave!"

  More cheers, and Herb was clapping like mad beside Orphan.

  "It makes my heart glad to see you all here, today. In a few short years we have gone from being a small, ignored minority of enthusiasts, to a true new nation. Never before has the world seen such a gathering of minds. Writers who each day rise from their bed and look ahead, at the future, as it inches up on all of us, one second at a time. Looking ahead, higher than ever, we envision the future, we write down what we see. Nothing is impossible! Rien n'est impossible!"

  "So right," Herb murmured beside Orphan. "So true!"

  Orphan patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.

  "My friends, we have some of the greatest writers of the romance of science here with us. Writers who envision not only science's great benefits, but also its possible faults. Whose questing minds hunger for knowledge, but whose hearts know its perils, too! We have delegates from Germany, from England, and of course, from France! From the four corners of the globe people have come, some from as far af ield as Vespuccia and Zululand!"

  More claps.

  "Our guest of honor this year," Verne continued, "is the remarkable Alexandre Dumas, fils."

  Claps. Verne motioned with his hand to another portly gentleman roughly his own age, who sat in the first row. "The son of the great Dumas père, the author of those classics of our genre—need I remind anyone here of Le Vicomte de Bragelonne? That eternal tale—banned everywhere in the so-called Everlasting Empire—of the man in the iron mask, of his imprisonment, his escape, his rise as a man of scientific genius, bent on exacting his revenge on the race of bug-eyed monsters who had taken over the land? Not only is it a savage political satire, a thrilling adventure, and a thoughtful and rigorous examination of the consequences of scientific research—it is also, to put it simply, a masterpiece."

  "Hear, hear!" Orphan heard Arthur cry, two seats along.

  "Who can forget his tales of D'Artagnan and his friends, fearless, honorable warriors in the series of The Space Musketeers? Or his portrayal of a Paris ravaged by an invasion in Les Mohicans de Paris? The man was a master of the craft, and his son—" here his voice changed yet again, became warm and intimate—"Alexandre, is an accomplished writer in his own right, who, having been loath to see his father's work copied and imitated, had several years ago began adding to the Dumas canon, expanding on the adventures of D'Artagnan and his friends, based on the extensive notes his father had left behind. There are over nine books in that series now, written by Alexandre and his collaborator, the extravagant and valiant—and a remarkable writer in his own right—Auguste Villiers de l'Isle-Adam—" here a man sitting beside Dumas fils rose slightly and gave a small, sardonic bow—"author of L'Ève Future and many more unique tales of roman scientifique, and all of them marvelous."

  Herb shrugged, though the audience clapped more enthusiastically than ever. Orphan's look questioned Herb, but his friend shook his head. Orphan made a note to ask him about it later.

  "But we have more esteemed guests," Verne continued, unheedful of the silence. "From Germany—though now a naturalized French citizen—" he looked over the audience and added, as if in parenthesis, "for we of the Republic value all intelligent life, and do not discriminate," which caused Herb amusement but made Machen ball his hands into fists, "E.T.A. Hoffman, or rather, his simulacrum. A good friend of mine, and the true embodiment of a wonderful writer." He smiled serenely at the audience and said, "As we are such fast friends, I tend to call him E.T. or sometimes, when we are alone—" he grinned at the audience—"The Hoff. Please give him a warm welcome!"

  Everyone clapped and Orphan joined in, if less than wholeheartedly. He was disturbed by the automaton.

  "From Germany, also," Verne continued, "we have the energetic and valiant writer of countless adventures, the man whose name is synonymous with courage and heroism, the man known all over the world but most of all amidst the tribes of Vespuccia, where he is known as Old Shatterhand —we are indeed honored to have with us today Karl May!"

  The German author, a tall, lithe man in the second row, stood and bowed gracefully to the audience.

  "And—born in Italy, a man both of this continent yet equally of the world, a prolific and prodigious writer of haunting mystery—F. Marion Crawford!"

  More claps, and the man sitting beside Karl May stood and gave a quick bow, accompanied by a beaming smile.

  "Friends," Jules Verne said, his voice caressing his audience, "I am delighted to have you all here today. I have talked enough. Let the convention begin!"

  And the ceremony was over with a roar of clapping and hoots. A short, balding man then came on the stage, thanked everyone again for coming, and reminded the assembled guests that the group signing and award ceremony would take place in the hall at five o'clock.

  "A signing," Herb said wistfully as they got up and began moving out of the door. "I wonder what I should write, if people ask me for a personal dedication. I never know what to say. Best wishes is so... pedestrian."

  "Perhaps you should come up with a stock phrase for the book?" Orphan suggested. "Like, say..." he thought about it. "Time flies?"

  "To X," Herb murmured. "Time flies! Best, H.G. Wells. Hmmm. It's not too bad, I guess."

  "The future is already here," suggested Machen beside them.

  "No time like the present!" Montague said on the other side.

  "I'll think of something," Herb said, and sighed.

  As they walked down the stairs Orphan remembered a question. "What was that about Alexandre Dumas fils and the other guy?"

  "l'Isle-Adam," Herb said, and shrugged. "He does what we in the business—" he inflated his chest a little, seeming proud of himself—"call the sequel trade. "

  "Excuse me?"

  "He deals in sequels. Continuations. Follow-ons. You see," Herb said, warming to his subject, "Dumas—Dumas père—was a master. A great writer. And he created a great universe in the world of the Musketeers. Who can forget D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis? Who can forget that great villain, Richelieu, the Emperor of Mars? Who can forget the hauntingly beautiful Milady, the spy and agent of the Star Kings?"

  "I don't understand," Orphan admitted. "If it was such a great world, what's wrong with Dumas fils and his collaborator extending it?"

  "Oh, nothing!" Herb said; though Orphan thought he said it rather dismissively. "It pays one's bills."

  "I see," Orphan said, who didn't.

  Downstairs, in the area around the hotel reception, stands had been set up, laden with books, magazines, and colorful bric-a-brac.

  "Monsieur Wells?"

  "Yes, that's right," Herb said. He had been approached by a thin, youngish man
with a burning cigarette dangling from his lips.

  "Alain Nevant," said the man, and put his hand forward to shake Herb's.

  "Monsieur Nevant!" Herb said, beaming. "Of Bragelonne? "

  It must be his publisher, Orphan thought, and was proven right when Nevant said, "Oui," also smiling, then added, "It was an honor to publish your novel. Would you like to see it?" and here he pointed to a table by the entrance that was bursting with piles of books. "Perhaps you could sign some for us now? I expect they will sell very well during the convention."

  "I'd be delighted!" Herb said, and momentarily he and Nevant were gone, leaving Orphan standing by the door. It was past noon, he saw.

  He stepped outside, feeling the Parisian sun beat on his face. The hubbub of the convention disappeared behind him and was replaced with the bustle of the Latin Quarter. On the road running parallel to the Seine carts, cabs and barouche-landaus were passing, their drivers gesticulating at each other, the horses pausing every so often to empty their bowels on to the ground, the barouche-landaus belching smoke into the already fragrant air. From everywhere came the smells of cooking foods, of frying garlic and simmering sauces, and of meats roasting on open fires. Tables were laid all around, covered in cloth and bottles of wine, and the burghers of Paris sat at them, talking, eating, smoking, and reading.

  He began wandering through the narrow, cobbled alleyways, listening to the talk of people going past, letting the smells of the cooking permeate his senses—cities, he realized, smelled different, and this was the Parisian scent—busy, loud, aromatic and humid, a little like home but at the same time indescribably different.

  I like it, he thought. There is a warmth about this city, a gentle busyness that spells prosperity. He went past stalls selling foods, drinks, used books lying in drowsy heaps on the pavement, clothes, cloths, spices, fish, coffees and teas, vegetables and fruits, and felt hungry again. It's hard not to, he thought, in Paris. The thought made him smile.

  He stopped at a stand selling grilled chickens and bought half of one, to which he added a freshly baked baguette from a nearby stall and a thick slab of Brie from another, two oranges from slightly further along, and finally a small bottle of strong, red wine, and carried his newly purchased lunch along with him until he found himself at a small, green garden that stood a little way away from the hotel, overlooking the Seine and the cathedral rising above it.

  He sat down at a vacant bench and began to eat, feeling ravenous. He tore the meat of the chicken with his fingers and soaked up the grease with the bread, which was crunchy on the outside and soft on the inside, and still hot from the oven. He cut large chunks of the chicken with a pocket knife and laid it on the bread, and washed it all down with the help of the wine.

  A little way away, on another bench, he spotted two young men—really no more than boys—talking animatedly to each other. They bore, he noticed, name tags from the convention. One was named Hanns Heinz Ewers; the other was Gaston Leroux. They were communicating, rather loudly, in an English accented in German and French, respectively.

  "I loved the latest issue," Ewers said. "The Fantôme is a wonderful creation. And the drawings! So vibrant!"

  "We have very good artists," Leroux said, looking pleased. "I am so glad to meet a fellow fan of bande dessinée, of—what do the English call it—a graphic novel?"

  "Graphic novel, ja," Ewers said. "But everyone knows no one can compete with the French when it comes to the art of graphic narrative."

  "Really," Leroux said, grinning widely, "you are too kind, my friend."

  "I have been thinking of writing my own graphic novel," Ewers confessed. They were both eating pomegranates and the pips spilled down on the floor like bright patches of blood. "I have an idea for a story about a woman automaton who commits murders."

  "I liked your story in—what was it— Diabolique? You have a devious mind, Hanns."

  "Thank you," Ewers said, looking pleased. "Nevertheless... I wish it was me who came up with your idea of the phantom. Such a concept! A masked vigilante, hiding underneath the opera house, from which he comes out in the dead of night to fight crime! I do believe I am right in saying you may well have created a template for graphic novels for years to come."

  "You're too kind," Leroux said again. "Look, I will have a word with the publisher.

  We can always use new blood on the writing team. There are plans to syndicate the phantom into all of Europe, and Vespuccia too."

  "That'd be fantastic," Ewers said, and the two of them, hands stained red, rose from the bench and sauntered away toward the island, soon disappearing from view.

  Orphan smiled to himself. When he was finished, and feeling quite drowsy, he peeled an orange and ate the slices slowly as he contemplated the view.

  Notre Dame rose out of the Seine like a monstrosity, a mocking inversion of the grandeur of Les Lézards's Palace: it was made of the same strange, greenish metal, and in the brightness of the day it seemed to suck in the sunlight, casting awkward shadows where no shadows should have been. People milled on the island around the cathedral, but they had a different look to the crowds that busily moved on the left bank: these moved with jerky, unnatural motions, like bad imitations of the way an automaton might move, and their faces were vacant and hollow, like the patients of an asylum. Even from a distance their faces disturbed Orphan: he did not want to approach the cathedral, did not want to encounter what he knew sat at its heart, that strange, mysterious cult that he had heard whispered about, but which, back home, the Queen and her coterie never deigned to comment on.

  For in the heart of this free, enlightened Republic, in the midst of its great capital city, there rose a strange and inexplicable religion: one for whom the rulers of the Everlasting Empire, the majestic Les Lézards, were seen as nothing else but gods.

  Four: A Death in the Cathedral

  Having finished his food, Orphan disposed of it in a nearby litter-bin and walked slowly across the road and over the river, finding himself at last on Ile de la Cité. It was cold in the large square fronting Notre Dame, and he found that his attention was constantly being dragged toward the overbearing building, as if its architects had designed it as a kind of school-yard bully, on whom it was best to always keep a wary eye.

  The thin crowd around him was, to an extent, composed of tourists, who were recognizable by the same nervous, somewhat excited glances they kept throwing around. The majority, however, were of the people he had, until then, only heard of but never seen: the Punks de Lézard.

  They were an odd, mixed crowd, the punks: their hair was cut off entirely for both the males and the females, save for several who had a curious ridge or spine made of a narrow strip of hair in the middle of their scalp, that stood in tall spikes from their otherwise-bare heads. Their naked skulls were painted, most commonly, in a greenish-brown imitation of Les Lézards' skin, and were often patterned with bands of alternating color, while those with spiked hair had it painted in outlandish, unnatural dyes that seemed to glow in response to the unhealthy light of the cathedral. Their faces, too, were painted to resemble those of lizards, and their clothes were sparse and made entirely of leather, which was painted on to resemble scales. They walked around in small groups, and when one opened his mouth to speak, Orphan saw he had had his tongue cut so that it, too, resembled a lizard's.

  The tourists loved them. Old French men had set up camera stands at all corners of the square and were making a profitable trade—as were the punks themselves, who charged the tourists to have their picture taken with them. At another corner he passed a group of punks in war paint who were hissing in a choir, making a strange, ethereal sound that sent a shiver down Orphan's back: they seemed to him at that moment to be more alien than Les Lézards themselves, a new and unknown species that had little humanity in it and that reveled in its own, makeshift difference.

  The punks had built the cathedral on the ruins of the old Notre Dame. As they were, after all, free citizens of the Republic, nobody s
topped them. Who had sponsored that construction, and why, Orphan didn't know. It simply sat there, squatting like a hideous toad on the Ile de la Cité, and the punks came there to worship, and the tourists came there to gawk.

  And, now, Orphan had come to meet at last with his contact.

  He stepped through the open doors of Notre Dame into the dark and humid interior. Pools of fetid water filled the giant hall, and in the warm, stagnant air flies buzzed lazily, landing here and there on thin reeds and—despite his wild flailings— on Orphan himself.

  He made his way through narrow strips of grassy land toward the center of the hall. It reminded him suddenly of the Bookman's lair underneath Payne's, in the similarity but also in the contrast, for the Bookman's place was cold and clinical and clean, and its water dead and filled with inanimate corpses, while this place was alive with the buzzing of flies and the thousands of small lizards scuttling through the shrubbery and climbing the green, luminescent walls.

  There were few people inside the cathedral. An altar was set up at its heart and Orphan approached it slowly, with cautious steps, until he found himself before it: it was a makeshift island, made of the same strange metal of the walls, and beside it was a bench, surprising in its ordinariness, a plain wooden bench for visitors, which was currently occupied by one person.

  The Hoffman automaton.

  He sat down beside Hoffman and waited. He did not look directly at the automaton.

  The silence between them lengthened. Finally, he looked sideways at the simulacrum. Nerves made him wet his lips. He began to say, "I am here," when he became aware of the absolute stillness of the figure beside him and, more than that, of something deeply, profoundly wrong with it. He reached out a hand to shake Hoffman's shoulder; and the body, at the touch of his hand, slowly toppled down to the ground.

  There was a hole at its back, and through it springs and gears, a whole miniaturized, complex clock-work stared at him with broken edges and he thought, numbly, Not again. Please.