Asimov's SF, April/May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Once everyone was safely in, the doors closed, and he released the brake, letting the car slide down the inclined rail and bump past the next return wheel so that he could grab on to the next transport cable with his grip. With a silent swiftness, they were pulled out of the station. Autumn sunlight filled the car.

  They crossed above a wide street crowded with streetcars and pedestrians. They brushed past a cupola and caught a glimpse of a private office, filled with dress forms and mannequins, and the back of a man's bald head as he knelt to pin a hem. The cupola was surrounded by caryatids, arms up as if expressing astonishment, not supporting the green copper roof. They wore brassieres over their Greek chitons: a display of this year's models. Andrew had his face pressed to the glass.

  "They'll probably stop putting those up when the telpher stops running,” Arabella said. “Who'll see them?"

  "It's a crime,” he muttered.

  Arabella glanced over her shoulder at the telpherman. Dark eyes too, and a strong jaw. Maybe the telpher lines hired for a look, and she'd just seen people who looked like him before.

  "Why are the telpher lines getting closed down, anyway?” she said.

  "Too fun.” Andrew sighed. “Gets us to too many places someone prefers to keep people out of. Subversive of public peace. Who knows? Like always, they say it's money. Cost. That's how they explain any decision they've already made."

  The line lifted and came into a larger station with glass canopies and elaborate wrought-iron work. Unlike the simple return wheels of the department store station, these wheels were powered drive wheels, and the vibration of the engine could be felt as soon as they stopped.

  At a gesture from Andrew they stepped out. From here the department store they had left was a vague gray bulk on the other side of the main shopping district. The advertising banners on its side, fluttering in the breeze, were unreadable.

  This was some kind of terminal stop, because everyone got out. The car rattled onto a switch, released on moving transport cable, rolled a few feet down a support rail, grabbed on to another cable, and, empty, zipped off in some secret direction, along with its driver.

  "All right,” Arabella said. “What's here?"

  "Lights,” Andrew said. “Lots of other stuff too. We should be able to find the perfect thing."

  * * * *

  The store should have been quiet and organized, but instead it was in chaos, with cabinets open and their contents strewn about. Several people sat on the floor, crumpling sheets of newspaper and stuffing them into boxes.

  A young woman with a long skirt, and her hair tucked under a kerchief to keep the dust off, shrugged at Andrew's question. “We packed those things up . . . when? Greg?” Someone answered, though Arabella couldn't hear the words. “A week ago. Fragile. We couldn't wait."

  "But why, Jill?” Andrew said. “Why are you leaving here?"

  "When the lines go down, where are our customers going to come from? There's a freight elevator way down the hall, but it's a hike just from there. We have to move. Don't worry, we'll tell all our loyal customers where we went. We'll have a big party. Tell you what, I'll put those lights on sale for you."

  "But that will be too late.” Andrew was in despair.

  "Take a look around. Maybe something else will catch your fancy. Now, if you'll excuse me. . . .” Arabella expected her to deal with some packing crisis, but instead Jill paused, head cocked, listening for something, before moving off. Arabella got the impression Andrew was used to getting more attention from this woman. He sometimes came home with battered ancient objects. Now she knew where at least some of them had come from.

  Andrew stood, at a loss.

  "If there's nothing here, there's nothing here,” Arabella said.

  "You're in a hurry to get home.” Andrew sounded resentful. “Planning your party. There's a lot to do."

  Arabella did, in fact, have a lot to do. She was nowhere near as up on her packing as she should have been. The busy efficiency of this store put her to shame. This Jill could probably have everything in Arabella's room done in under fifteen minutes.

  But she was desperate not to get back. Her train to the mountains left early the next morning. She couldn't alter that, but she could make sure she didn't waste the short time she had left here in the city that was the only home she knew. The quick failure of Andrew's plan was a real disappointment, because it meant that their house was the only place left to go.

  "Isn't there anywhere else we can go?” she said. “Anyplace else with a light for sale?"

  Andrew shook his head.

  "Hey, Andrew!” It was Jill, holding something wrapped in a sheet of old newsprint. “I found this buried in back, under some fossils. If you want it, you can have it."

  She unrolled the newspaper to reveal a dark metallic cylinder, maybe a foot long and a couple of inches in diameter. It could have been a club, or the handle to a tool, though it looked too fragile to be either.

  From his face, Arabella could see that Andrew was wondering whether to pretend he knew what it was.

  Jill saved him the trouble. “An arc-light electrode. A rare one, too—magnetite- titanium. I have no idea where it even came from."

  "But . . . there must be a lot more to an arc light. Where's the rest?"

  "No idea! If you want it, take it. I've given you all the information I have on it. Examine everything about it carefully, and you might learn something.” Jill paused again. This time she did hear something, some change in the thumping and vibration of the telpher station overhead. “Otherwise dump it near the back door. Just come to the new store when you can and make a real purchase."

  This time she moved with quick purpose, to the stairs and out of the store.

  Arabella now saw that the newspaper held a full-page engraving, something with the shattered beams of something collapsed and people fighting on the ruins. Andrew wrapped the cylinder back up before she could get a better look. What else could he do but keep it?

  He looked around. “There must be something else we could pick up. . . ."

  "No, Andrew."

  They were only fifteen minutes apart in age—their parents had never revealed which of them had emerged first—but he knew when to accept her authority.

  * * * *

  Up on the platform that same dark-haired telpherman, his boots gleaming, had hauled out an older car, lacquered a dignified red. It hung from the support rail as he fussed with its grip. It looked enticing, but this car was heading on, away from the department store and home. There was a lot to do at home, and Arabella was desperate to avoid all of it.

  Arabella could see that Jill had been listening for just this car. She stood in the sun at the edge of the platform, picking tiny pieces of parchment and rotted leather from her jacket. She'd pulled her kerchief off, to reveal light brown hair, held in two thick braids pinned around her head.

  "Departing in five minutes!” the telpherman called. Passengers who had gotten up from their seats on the platform settled themselves back. Even in its heyday, patience and a willingness to accept the unexpected had been a requirement of telpher passengers.

  The telpherman jumped energetically off his car and strode over to Jill. They leaned on the railing next to each other, looking out over the cityscape. It was too far to hear anything, and there was really no way to get closer without being obvious, so Arabella found a way to distract herself.

  "Let me see that electrode."

  "It won't look any different."

  "Just let me see it."

  With ill grace, Andrew handed it to her, and she unwrapped it. She wasn't interested in the electrode, but in the newspaper engraving that Andrew had so cavalierly ignored. She thought Jill had been quite clear that there was more information to be found there. Andrew might have known Jill better, but Arabella was sure she understood her better.

  The engraving on the sheet showed a collapsed telpher station, shrouded in mist. You could see iron wheels and snapped cables. Above it loomed a
wall made of heavy stone blocks. The artist had lavished a lot of attention on every shattered board and twisted piece of metal.

  "The Fall of Carcery Station,” was the title.

  Around the picture of the collapsed station were five little scenes, in ovals:

  A scene of the same station in darkness, with men in evening wear fighting on it, their shadows black and sharp-cast behind them by some great light.

  A telpher drive wheel and steam engine wreathed in smoke and steam.

  A party or ballroom with a lot of elegantly dressed people standing and looking out of a window at something, their shadows also black and long, though not as crisp as those of the others fighting on the struts.

  A bearded man falling back in the mist that often swirled in low-lying Carcery Square, one arm outstretched, the other on his forehead as a strut or a bar fell from somewhere above.

  And at the top, an elegantly dressed young woman operating a large searchlight, pulling back on it hard, one foot up on its high heel.

  * * * *

  The engraving was beautiful. But why was that woman with the light wearing a ball gown? It seemed an inappropriate outfit for what looked like hard work.

  "Is this your light, here?” Arabella pointed to the young woman.

  "What? Where?” Andrew turned his attention to the sheet. Then he spent quite a few minutes looking at it, grunting to himself, so Arabella glanced over at Jill and the telpherman.

  Jill sat on a bench, arms crossed. The telpherman had vanished.

  But where had he gone? He certainly hadn't come back by them, and his car still hung locked to the overhead rail, while the increasingly impatient passengers paced back and forth.

  Jill looked up as the telpherman clambered down from above, holding a bucket. Bird feathers stuck to his jacket, and a couple floated to the ground. She looked like she'd like to brush a few more off, but instead glanced into the bucket and then turned away, irritated by what she saw there.

  "This must be from the night it happened!” Andrew gestured with the electrode, and a vagrant puff of breeze blew the newspaper off his lap.

  It skittered toward the railing. But the telpherman, quick and lithe, was on it in an instant. He folded it carefully and handed it, not to Andrew, who stood with the electrode nervously in his hand, but to Arabella, with a slight bow. He had a lively face, with surprised eyebrows and warm brown eyes.

  She really thought she had seen him somewhere before.

  "Where are you two headed?” he said. “Some of the lines are coming down. You should be careful what you try to get to."

  "Back where we came from, I suppose,” Arabella said. “We were looking for a desk light here, as a gift. Something unusual. But they've packed them up."

  "The Balloon Market. You've probably heard of it. That's the place to go for anything unusual.” He glanced over Arabella's shoulder.

  "Time for me to get back.” Jill held her pocket watch in her fist like a weapon. “I have a store to pack up. As they say, best of luck in your future endeavors.” She slowed just a bit as she got to the stairs, but the telpherman just shrugged.

  "This next car goes right past the Balloon Market,” he told Arabella. “But you'll have to hurry if you want a seat."

  With a couple of steps, he was back up on the back of the telpher car.

  "Huh,” Andrew said. “Carcery Station, what this engraving shows, is right across the square from the Balloon Market. Father told me the story, how the station came down, when I first got interested in telpher lines."

  "They might have lights at the Balloon Market,” Arabella said.

  "But don't you have to get home . . . ?"

  "Don't argue with fate! Just explain what the electrode has to do with it."

  They just made it on the car before the telpherman's clamp gripped the cable with a squeal.

  * * * *

  "I'm not sure I'm really going to be able to explain the electrode,” Andrew said.

  "Just tell the story."

  "I don't know how Father got interested in the telpher lines. Particularly in the early days, when the whole thing was just getting started.” The car was crowded, so Andrew and Arabella were pushed together in a corner, just below the telpherman's seat. “But he learned a lot about them, and not just from books. He must know people."

  Father always seemed to know people. A lot of them came to loud parties at the house, and one or two of them ended up in his office—as if the parties were just an excuse to get a someone upstairs. Sometimes Arabella would wake up at night and hear quiet conversation after the rest of the party had gone silent.

  "People needed an easy way to get across town,” Andrew said. “The streets were packed. Then someone looked up at the rooftops and saw the obvious solution. Once they figured out the wheels, the cables, and the cars, it was a rush to get the cables up. It's easy to install a wheel, and if you have a strong floor, you can put a little steam engine in under it. The original cars were just old carriages with grips installed on their roofs. Pretty light, and cheap to replace if one fell to the street. So, once you'd put some cable stays on two different roofs and hung up the support cables, you had yourself a telpher route. Then you had the fastest way to get from one place to another.

  "So they went up everywhere. Companies formed telpher lines, with collections of routes, and competed on where they could take passengers. The biggest one, the one that got most of the good routes early, was Greensward, Abattoir & Harborworks. But at least five big lines were organized. They fought for business. And one of the ways they fought was by sabotaging each other's routes. If a route was out of operation for a while, its passengers found another line to ride, even if it was less convenient.

  "The Black Hill, Cromlech, Execution Square & Imperial Baths line was known for having the best saboteurs. Their gang was called the Spider Monkeys. And they were led by a man named Gibbon."

  "Gibbons aren't spider monkeys,” Arabella said, before she could stop herself.

  "What?"

  Now that she'd started, she had to finish. “Spider monkeys are New World monkeys. Gibbons are Old World—"

  "You're so smart you probably even know the meaning of the word ‘pedantic.’ “

  Arabella bit back on a retort. She didn't want a fight, not now. Despite her irritation, she found herself wanting to hear Andrew's story. Not just for the no-doubt-exciting adventures of the Spider Monkeys and their misnamed leader. They had an arc-light electrode with a mysterious history, and here was a picture of a young woman operating what was clearly an arc light. That she was wearing a ball gown and . . . Arabella looked closer . . . really great shoes while doing it made learning the story even more urgent.

  "I'm sorry, Andrew. Please go on.” No one ever gave you credit for not doing something you could easily have done. It really wasn't fair.

  Andrew said nothing for a moment, but he needed to talk more than he wanted to punish her by not talking.

  "Here's the kind of thing Gibbon and the Black Hill Spider Monkeys did,” Andrew said, finally. “There was a guy working in Hann's office, name of Pardo. He was a back-office guy, worked the numbers for Hann's line, Greensward, Abattoir & Harborworks. He was the one who planned the building of Carcery station, which made Greensward dominant in the north of the city. But what he really wanted to do was run a telpher car. Wanted to impress a girl, or something. He begged Hann, but Hann refused. Finally, desperate, Pardo bribed a Greensward telpherman to let him run a car on the Fire Tower-Summer Garden route."

  A man and two children sat opposite, a picnic basket at their feet, a champagne bottle and loaf of bread sticking out. The girl glanced at her father, patted him on the shoulder, and then rested her head there. He stroked her hair and stared out of the window. The boy, younger, read an illustrated book.

  "Gibbon heard about that. He heard about everything. So, knowing he had an inexperienced telpherman to deal with, he pulled a trick. The night before Pardo was going to take the grip of that r
oute, Gibbon and the Spider Monkeys climbed the Harem Stairs with some repair equipment they'd liberated from their own line. They added an extra switch on the ceiling of the station there. They drilled a bolt into the big stone tower that supplied water to Clepsydra, the old municipal water clock. They connected a cable to the bolt, and then laid it from the water tower to the Harem Stairs station, hiding it under weeds and scraps of the junk that collects under telpher stations. It was risky, but they got away with it."

  "I'm not sure I understand how that worked,” Arabella said.

  "There's an example right up here,” Andrew said. “I'll show you."

  The cables climbed up to the bell tower of the deconsecrated Cathedral of St. Hippolytus. The building was famous because of the horse sculptures that decorated its tower and roof. Their heads were thrown back, their manes streamed in the wind, and their hooves were raised up, as if to smash down on an enemy. St. Hippolytus had been torn apart by horses. Arabella didn't know who to admire more: the martyrs for their devotion, or their murderers for the endless inventiveness that had earned the gratitude of generations of artists. Most deaths gave little scope for art, or even a wallpaper border.

  The telpher builders had crammed a station in under the mouths of the ponderous bells. The upper areas of the church were now a hostel for the elderly, and it was here that the father and his children got out, with their champagne-and-bread-containing picnic basket. Arabella only hoped that, when she got old, her children and grandchildren would remember the champagne when they came to visit.

  "Look up,” Andrew said.

  Under the beams of the roof ran a bunch of rails, which fanned out like the branches of a tree. Their own car hung from one of them. In a station, telpher cars were essentially upside-down one-railed trains. Several routes ran from the St. Hippolytus station. Just as in a railway yard, the rails would bend slightly when a worker in the station yanked on a switch, and like someone crooking a finger at an open birdcage to get a parakeet to climb onto it, encourage the car to roll onto them. They sloped slightly, so that the car would keep rolling. At the end of each rail was the wheel and moving transport cable of the actual route. The telpherman would slide the car onto that moving cable, engage the grip, and be pulled out of the station.