Cypulchre

by Joseph Travers MacKinnon

  “Give it a chance.”

  Paul squints at the elevator. There’s a second, loud click. A blinding flash hides a belch of flame and a shower of metal fragments. The shockwave throws Paul and Oni to the side like wet laundry. The boom begets a crunch, and the bottom door-panel collapses.

  Smoke. Coughing.

  “Oni, you alright?” Paul asks between gasps, crawling over the shrapnel and debris. “Oni?”

  He finds her hunched over, legs crossed.

  She rubs her arms with probative, bloody fingers. “I’m fine. Just some scratches.”

  “You sure?”

  Oni raises a silencing finger, transfixed on their new portal to the elevator shaft, torched a rainbow-black. The collapsed bottom-piece wobbles.

  “Grab it!” she cries, struggling forward.

  The debris leans back, and falls into the shaft, creating a thunderous commotion. She stops mid-lunge.

  “Crap. Well, there goes the element of surprise.”

  The crater in the remaining door looks like a twisted, vacant eye embedded in a silver plate. Paul holds the sides of the crater, and leans through the gap. “Hot damn,” he mumbles.

  There’s a circle of LED lights marking every floor. Further down, they appear to smudge together forming a uniform line.

  “Help me with this,” says Paul, tugging on one side of the gap.

  Oni grabs the other side, and together they pull the eye apart. Paul turns into her contemplative stare.

  “What’s the deal with this gun of yours? I can’t be waiting around for shit to go off.”

  “Looks like the delayed rounds got mixed in with the incendiary ammunition. Impact grenades have the red stripe; green bands are on delayed nades.” She lifts the two varieties in the knotted chain-feed dangling from the side of the B.F.G.

  “Fuse life?”

  “Five, six seconds from the time they’re fired. If you’re reloading it, careful you don’t hand-activate them. There’s a charge...Once they lose the charge—whether shot, primed, or thrown, it doesn’t matter—the countdown begins.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Yeah.” Oni looks down the elevator bank. “Let’s get a move-on before they figure out where that door came from.”

  Paul looks up the bank. The view is obscured by an elevator. “What’re my chances of catching a ride straight to Winchester?”

  “Not as good as your chances of falling to your death.”

  Chapter 32: SHAFTED

  GIBSON’s ROPE-CLAW is a godsend. Paul whizzes effortlessly up the elevator bank holding onto the tail of the spider-silk cable, also clasped to his waistband for good measure. The claw’s motor whines laboriously, dragging Paul towards the hook’s end, jammed into the bottom of the elevator compartment idling around the hundredth storey. LED lights blear-by in glowing zigzags like a chromosomal chain-on-fire.

  “Comm check,” Paul whispers into his Monocle feed, his reinforced legs swinging beneath him.

  “Roger,” says Oni, her voice slightly warbled by the Citadel’s jammers and the CLOUD interference. “Man, it’s freezing in here.”

  “Server central?”

  “It’s enormous, Paul. These are all recent additions. New even relative to the blueprints we pulled, and those were only a month old. They’ve enough coolant gel and honeycomb to synch the entire Midwest.”

  With a jerk, Paul ceases to ascend.

  “I see the Special Collections wing…Do you copy?”

  “I’ve hit a slight snag. Give me a second.” Kicking, Paul tries to swing over to the ladder. The LEDs throw his frantic shadow-play against the far side.

  Beeping resounds in the shaft. The elevator unhinges, and begins to lurch upwards. It tugs at Paul. His body’s resistance is spelt out in taught muscles. He groans, the LEDs now blurring to a seemingly unbroken line of white.

  “Paul?”

  “All good,” he grumbles. “A possible stroke of luck.”

  With about twenty storeys left to go, the elevator stops again, jostling Paul like a dead fish on a hook. The compartment dips slightly, and fills with modulated chatter. There’s very little to be made of all the synthetic banter, but one phrase penetrates the compartment clearly: “Med-sci ward.”

  “No thanks,” Paul grumbles, wiggling on the line. “This is where I get off.”

  The elevator dislodges and begins to drop. Falling three-floors a second, Paul manages to unclasp his waistband and swing over to the side ladder in one fluid motion. It’s no small fortune that he’s able to grasp one of the rungs. Coupled with his fortune is potential calamity: clattering on his back, the knight’s gun gets tangled in the spider-silk cord.

  “No!” he cries.

  He grabs the shoulder strap in one hand, and the ladder bar with the other. The elevator whooshes by with such speed and gravity that it almost pulls him into its path. Paul feels the strand of spider-silk loosen, easing on his muscles—stretched to the point of tearing (without the exoskeleton, they surely would). He shakes the B.F.G. once more. It swings free, striking him in the shin. The line falls loose, and down the chamber. The slight twinge through his already-brutalized leg is the best he could’ve hoped for.

  The elevator counterbalance tracks up the steel cable, reflecting the clear, natural light, filtering down the well—no longer obstructed by the cumbersome container.

  That’s it, Paul realizes. The roof—or something resembling one. “Oni, I’m climbing.” The Monocle conveys his wheezes in bursts.

  “There’s a lot of activity around the Memex Overwatch System, Paul. I’ve found a uniform…”

  “Found?”

  “Bloodlessly, actually. I fit right back in. It’s like I never lit this place on fire…How far have you to go?”

  “Ten storeys, or thereabouts.”

  “Alright, I’m in their system. Give me a second to scope out the area for you.”

  “I’ll just be—“

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?”

  “If you say ‘hanging around’ I’ll turn off the comm on principle.”

  Paul looks down the elevator bank. There are more floors in this building than names in the Barstow registry. Winchester may be an evil son of a bitch, but he is certainly a master builder. “Success is power, and failure servitude,” he used to say.

  Paul continues climbing, despite the pain and creaking in his elbows. There is an unprecedented interval between this floor and the next. More headroom for the imperial crown, Paul posits.

  Unlike the previous elevator doors, the opening to Winchester’s floor is smooth; no cranks, interfaces, or circuit boards.

  “Hey, I need a way in.”

  Oni’s Monocle cuts out.

  “Oni?”

  She comes back on, panting. “Hey, sorry. Something’s gotten their attention down here. I count eight or nine mechs.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  Paul hears a melody of beeps and boops—probably Oni hacking a keypad of some sort. “Alright. There’s innumerable security features on this floor. I only have access to three: Winchester’s personal elevator, the blast-shield along the windows, and…let’s see. Oh, good! The maintenance elevator.”

  “Might as well deactivate all three.”

  There’s shouting on the other end. “‘Hey you!’” bellows a modulated voice. There’s more yelling, and then the pkt-pkt-pkt of assault rifles.

  Paul leans out into the elevator bank to get a better look. With arms stretched and taut, he stares blankly at the rolled-homogenous steel door. In his partial reflection, Paul sees Pythia’s bright blue eyes. “Anything…” he murmurs, hooking his left arm around a rung. He fumbles with the knight’s gun, trying to procure a delayed grenade. A red-striped nade jumps clear of the feed. Paul nearly loses his hold trying to catch it. The flashing red light shrinks to a blip, like a lure cast into deep, dark water. “That’s not good.”

  There’s a boom and a poof of smoke. The elevator cables wave, and the counterw
eight hurdles past Paul—its fate bound to the elevator Paul’s unwittingly turned to Swiss-cheese below.

  The LEDs lining the bank start flashing red. A computerized voice chimes in: “LOCKDOWN INITIATED. COMMENCING FLUSH PROTOCOL.”

  “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me,” cries Paul. He haphazardly extracts a green grenade from the chain, and slings the B.F.G. behind him. “Now or never.” He winds up to lodge the nade in the door. In advance of the slamming motion, the elevator door rolls to the side.

  Thank God for you, Oni.

  He jumps into the opening. The B.F.G. swings back, nearly spinning him over the edge, but Paul gears himself forward with a quick and frenetic punching motion. He smashes the elevator button, and the door whooshes shut, isolating the so-called “Flush protocol.”

  “Oni, I’m through.”

  Static on the other end.

  The freight-entrance is gorgeous. Gilded Rococo curves map across pastel walls tattooed with rich murals of buxom libertines splayed-out in idyllic forest-clearings. The lavish ornamental look is offset by the stark, blue and white hall ahead.

  Past the freight elevator and outside the antechamber, the smooth Rococo lines fade into an ultra-mod, minimalistic grid pattern. An inverted fin comprised of crystalloid LEDs hangs the length of the hall, above the nearly-transparent, electric catwalk. Railing-less, the pathway glows off-blue, and hovers above two vacant storeys—or as Paul imagines, the Citadel’s demarrowed bones.

  Unlike the massive LED chandelier, the catwalk bifurcates at intervals along the hallway—enclosed by a glass and titanium prism—to balconies, turrets, observatories, and executive offices. Must be a holiday, Paul supposes, eyeing all the empty rooms.

  Paul’s warming up the idea of an easy-go at Winchester, but chills immediately at the sight of a Monarch drone emerging from the murk.

  “Oni, do you copy?”

  More static.

  God-damn-it, woman! “Have you wired the Empty Thought yet?”

  Some semblance of Oni’s trebly voice cuts through. “P-P-Paul, it’s so much worse than we’d imagined.”

  Paul takes cover behind an armoire, sitting at the mouth of the elevator antechamber.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Winchester…he’s taking Outland international in a big way. In the cypulchre, past the coolant-gel pumps, there’s a monitor. It’s guarded, but I can get the gist from here via a Monocle hack...They’re launching in Tokyo, New Moscow, Cairo, and Toronto.”

  Paul unstraps the B.F.G., and stands it butt-first beside him. “Well, we’re about to give them a good reason to reconsider…”

  There’re multiple voices competing on the other end.

  “Oni?”

  “I’m here. Just loaded the Empty Thought to your memex. Or at least I think I did. Proceed as planned. Good luck decrypting it…”

  “Alright. Winchester’s office is on the other end of the floor. Except for a drone or two, it’s a ghost town in here. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Chances are…”

  “Right. What’s the time ratio again? I mean, real time versus CLOUD time?”

  “With your modifications? Something in the neighbourhood of ten minutes, CLOUD time, for every real-time second spent synched up.”

  “Wish me luck.”

  “Paul?” Oni’s voice cracks. “Take care of yourself up there.”

  That’s a promise I can’t keep.

  Paul checks the corner to see if the Monarch’d fluttered away. It’s still there.

  “And you take care down there. Over and out.”

  Paul turns off his Monocle, and pulls himself up by the knight’s gun. He strides confidently out of the antechamber, and takes the catwalk, centre stage. The Monarch spins to face him. Its cells light up, turning bright orange, while it hind-fans offset the turbulence made by its arming-sequence.

  Heavier than it looks, and already looking mighty heavy, it takes Paul almost too much time to orient the B.F.G., but he does, anyway. Holding it at waist level, he reads the green light welling-up in the Monarch’s laser chamber as a sign. He squeezes the trigger.

  There’s no debate as to what kind of shell he fired. A direct hit exacts a gold, black, and red mushroom cloud. Paul trudges forward, with sparks and chips raining down into the empty storeys behind him.

  The hallway looks as if its architect had been commissioned to build a mile-long lean-to using only the best materials, 2500 feet above terra firma. All the windows face the ocean, while the eastern side is made up of one solid titanium wall, keeping out the prying eyes of lost angels.

  Moving along the catwalk, Paul feels a tremor. He turns and scans the room’s many sub-corridors and vaults for another Monarch or some other soulless drone. He bends to shoulder the B.F.G. and notices the catwalk flickering. Someone knows he’s here. That same someone is sapping the electricity fortifying the bridge. It’s a draw-bridge on the verge of withdrawal.

  Paul pre-empts the trap, and leaps into a room off the path. The bridge flickers and crackles, and then disappears. Without the rope-claw, Paul sees no other alternative than to scope out the terminus of the sub-corridor.

  Chapter 33: CORPORATE REUNION

  “OUTBUILD. OUTMATCH. OUTSHINE. Outland.” The propaganda poster depicts a duotone Olympian carrying a sword and shield into the vivid, grid-lined unknown. Beside it, another, more starkly-coloured poster, shows a cypulchre casting a shadow over the eastern hemisphere with the caption: “What can we do? What can’t we do?” Paul sneers at the rhetorical question. Stop me, for one. He presses on, down the sub-corridor.

  At the end of the passageway is a narrow, black-metal staircase. It zigzags up a well-lit spire walled with semi-transparent, green-hued silica bricks. Through the composite of mint bubbles, Paul can make out the coast. White caps and surf break on Blue Zone shoals. He imagines the sound of the water hammering the flood gates, and works the tidal tempo into his stride.

  He marches up the remainder of the stairs, which flow into a passageway that, running parallel to the sub-corridor below, leads back to the main hall.

  A muffled voice broadcasts over Paul’s Monocle. “Paul?”

  “I’m almost there,” he replies, pulling out a handful of SIK tabs.

  “I hacked the surveillance feeds.”

  “And?”

  He looks at the triangular pills and lets them fall. Instability might be of some benefit when dealing with a nearly-omniscient, noospheric god.

  “In Winchester’s office, there are…” Her feed cuts out.

  “Oni?” There’re what?”

  Static purrs.

  “Oh, dammit,” he mumbles.

  He checks the chamber on the knight’s gun, and runs towards the main hall.

  Paul would monkey along the LED chandelier and pray for a dramatic and miraculous descent had he the energy to do so. But he doesn’t, so he searches for an alternative, standing at the end of the senior sub-corridor. There’s a scant ledge running along the western face, angled under the glass. The road less taken…

  He shimmies along the precipice, over to a folded maintenance ladder. There’s a crank stylishly embedded in the glass. The mechanism, springs, pistons, and all, are visible in their gauzy cocoon. Paul pulls the crank. The springs compress, kicking the piston out and the lock open. The ladder drops to the staging area in front of Winchester’s office.

  “Hot damn!” Paul exclaims.

  Reminding himself that a little bit of good luck is usually a sign of a lot of bad luck to come, Paul takes a moment to gather his strength. After a few painful, deep breaths, he’s ready.

  He slides down faster than he’d expected, burning his hands on the rough metal. His boots smack the floor—undeniably solid this time. He quickly recuperates, and dashes to the office door, leading with the muzzle of the B.F.G.

  The office is massive. On either side of the gold lane running down the hem, there are little champagne-coloured mirror pools reflecting the late-afternoon l
ight. Enclosing the space are glyph-enveloped sandstone monoliths, likely imported directly from Giza. Unlike the hallway leading up to it, Winchester’s office only has one window—a cross-like cavity cut into the western wall that highlights the golden lane, and cuts the room in half with a secondary, horizontal ray.

  Beneath the window sits the Resolute desk—sole survivor of the siege of Washington, no doubt a gift from an appreciative Head of State. The presidential seal that had been carved into the wood and later effaced by shell fragments has been replaced by the Outland ‘O’. The former eagle’s wings lift the corporate insignia up into the star-studded cloud.

  Leaning against the far side of the desk: the narrow profile of a shrunken man silently overlooking the ocean. His reflection in the cross-window is grey, blotchy, and inhuman—so, more-or-less what I’d expected to find.

  Paul assumes that the stilted device nestled in the corner behind the Resolute desk—ostensibly the only tech in the room—must be the Baal Deck storm machine—Angela’s and Pythia’s ticket home.

  “Dr. Sheffield, I presume.” The geriatric turns slowly into shadow, and flattens his fingers on the felt lining the British timber. “Hello, old friend. It’s been a long, long time. Please come in. I haven’t a seat for you; wasn’t expecting guests, after all. I suppose you could always kneel…”

  It’s quiet in here. Paul can hear his disjunctive thoughts chaw at one another. He can hear the tick of Winchester’s mechanical heart. He can hear cogwheels turning…

  At the sight of the knight’s gun, Winchester simpers and sits down at his desk. “You’ve gone to great and unnecessary lengths to get here. Could’ve called. Was your Monocle broken?”

  “We’ve no time for pleasantries, Niles.” What good are naming conventions between two dead men? “We need to rain out the heavenly host or they’re doomed…Or we’re doomed.”

  “Sheffield, do yourself a favour and lower that weapon. There’s no reason why we cannot talk like civilized men.”

  “No can do. You’ve already tried to kill me twice. Civility depends on trust, and that’s something I simply don’t have.”