by Mike Sheriff
The ultrasonic whistle grew louder.
Daoren’s skin flushed—his body was being heated from within. They had ten seconds at most before the ultrasonic energy did permanent damage.
He rip-sawed through her other hair braid, hand a blur. Clamping the dagger between his teeth, he dragged Heqet to the edge of the platform.
He coiled the second braid around the cable and double-wrapped its free ends around his hands. He petitioned Sha for the strength to hold on, for the braid to bear their combined weight, and for it to be thick enough to withstand the friction. He would have petitioned for more, but the ultrasonic whistle was upon them.
He wrapped his legs around Heqet and rolled off the platform.
Daoren grunted against the shock of their whip-snapping bodies, almost dropping the dagger. Heqet dangled from his waist, mercifully oblivious to the view below. The braid rasped against the cable as they gathered momentum and cleared the ultrasonic danger.
A few seconds into the decent, a pungent, scorched aroma filled his nostrils. He looked up.
Gray wisps of smoke curled from the rasping braid.
Daoren ground his teeth against the dagger’s blade. He couldn’t do anything about the friction—they were committed now. Whether they reached the floor depended on the braid’s density and thickness.
Midway down the cable, they streaked over the first grooll tank, then the second. He locked his gaze onto the fuming braid. If it parted now they’d be boiled alive.
They continued to accelerate, now forty feet above the mill floor, and cleared the third tank. Smoke poured from the hair braid.
They whisked over the final gaping cauldron. Flesh-tone precursor gurgled ten feet below their sandals. Its radiant heat clothed Daoren like a funeral shroud. A single thought consumed his mind.
Please hold . . . please hold . . . please—
The charred braid parted.
The nauseating tingle of free-fall ravaged Daoren’s stomach. His panicky gaze found the smoldering grooll tank.
They plunged past its lip, missing it by inches. A split-second later, they hit the floor and his mind went blank.
Whether it stayed blank for a minute or an hour, he couldn’t say. When his senses returned, all he knew for certain was that he was in pain and that Heqet was lying on top of him. She whimpered the way a person does in the midst of an ill dream.
Daoren spat the dagger from his mouth, tasting his own blood, but he didn’t care.
He was alive.
Heqet was alive.
They’d survived the grooll mill.
He closed his eyes and rasplaughed.
2
Nightfall
SUNSET STAINED THE Hollows in ruddy hues. The cloister’s glass tubes reflected lurid reds, like they’d been doused in blood. Wind gusts provoked a chorus of haunting laments. Grumbling voices accompanied them.
Jireni squads surrounded the memorial, some on foot, others astride armored levidecks. They corralled hundreds of miserable denizens and prospects into extended lines, bio-scanning them in turn regardless of age or lineage. The laborious process proved both slow and aggravating.
Pyros grunted. An hour had passed since the carnage on the steps of the Center. The senior Jiren had been good to his word, quickly setting up checkpoints throughout Zhongguo Cheng to intercept Laoshi and Cordelia. But the odds of the pair selecting a route that bypassed the Hollows were low—why risk such naked exposure when countless warrens were available among the district’s numberless structures? The senior Jiren must have decided to leave nothing to chance, perhaps too eager to rectify his earlier shortcomings. As a result, he’d opted to cast as wide a net as possible.
Too wide, Pyros reckoned. Laoshi was an Asianoid-Caucasoid in his mid-sixties, Cordelia a Slavv in her early forties. There was no need to bio-scan the Indonoids, Africoids, or prospects that made up forty percent of the glutted lines. The Jiren must have ordered his men to verify the identity of every man, woman, and child before letting them pass. Pyros had been on-scene less than two minutes and could already sense the ill effect the indiscriminate scanning was having on the crowd’s mood. He waved the senior Jiren over.
“Checkpoints have been established on all routes leading to the Librarium, sire,” the Jiren said. He cast his gaze toward the western horizon, now steeped in violet thanks to the sinking sun. “With luck, we’ll have them before nightfall.”
“Not at this rate.” Pyros motioned to the closest line. “There’s no need to scan every denizen. Most of the Jireni here could be dispatched to patrol other locations.”
“Laoshi and Cordelia might have disguised themselves.”
“As children?” Pyros gestured to an Africoid family in the closest line. A prospect, all of six years old, wailed as a Jiren jammed a probe into her ear. Her parents glared at the callous fid. “Your men are only upsetting their parents.”
“Why should that be of any concern?”
“Look around you,” Pyros said. “There are thousands of them and only a few dozen of us.”
The Asianoid cocked his head and frowned. “You think they’ll turn on us?”
“You think they won’t?”
The Jiren’s frown deepened as though the thought had never occurred to him.
“Put yourself in their position,” Pyros said, motioning to the interminable lines scribing the cloister. “They’ve just witnessed the death of hundreds of fellow denizens at the hands of the Jireni . . . and for what? From their perspective, the culling was random and unprovoked.”
“The Unum ordered us to—”
“The people aren’t privy to the Unum’s orders. Nor are they concerned with the machinations of power. They care only about their next meal, their kin’s welfare, their children’s survival. If the Jireni stand in opposition to those desires, then we are their enemy.”
“But we don’t serve the people, sire. We serve the ruling caste.”
“And what percentage of the city-state does the ruling caste represent?”
The Jiren’s eyes darkened as he contemplated the question. His response was pre-empted by a clamor of shouts and curses.
Thirty feet away, a Jireni squad thrashed a clutch of Indonoids with combat-hardened staffs. Other denizens surrounded the melee, pleading for restraint. Some bodily intervened, inserting themselves between the Jireni and the victims, only to be beaten back by more vicious blows.
Pyros primed his lungs to shout an order. The senior Jiren beat him to it. “Stop that!”
The squad stopped the beatings, looks of puzzlement shading their faces.
“Release those men,” the Jiren said, pointing at the bloodied Indonoids sprawled upon the ground. “Then allow all non-Asianoids and Slavvs to proceed without bio-scanning.”
“And prospects,” Pyros added.
“Prospects as well,” the Jiren relayed to his confused men. “Pass the word to the others. Bio-scan only those denizens who match Laoshi and Cordelia’s description.”
The squad secured their staffs. One of them whisked off on a levideck, presumably to convey the order.
Pyros nodded. His argument must have softened the senior Jiren’s calloused mind. He could have easily ordered the change to the bio-scanning targets himself, but moral suasion was always preferable to hierarchical authority. The senior Jiren might be a useful ally in what was to—
The quantum tile vibrated in Pyros’ pocket. He tugged it from his bianfu and scanned its screen.
Commander Cang’s name glowed in the waning daylight.
He tapped the screen. “What is it, commander?”
“I need you to come to the Center, sire.”
Pyros surveyed the Hollows. The crowd’s mood still teetered on the brink of hostility. Another beating or ill-advised act of coercion might push it over the edge. “I’m a little preoccupied at the moment. Is it important?”
“Yes,” Cang said. “It’s about Daoren and Heqet.”
“What about them?”
; “They escaped the grooll mill.”
“Say that again?”
“Daoren and Heqet escaped the grooll mill, sire. I’m here with a team to investigate how.”
Pyros lowered the tile. A gust of wind brushed across the glass tubes. They bowed to its pressure and released a mournful howl.
His skin shrank at the sound.
DAOREN CRADLED HEQET’S limp body and stepped into the laneway. His joints ached—due less to her dead weight than his time spent captive in the Rig and exertions during the escape from the grooll mill. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring his vision. He’d give anything to wipe them clean, but that would mean setting Heqet down. He wasn’t sure he’d have the strength to pick her up again.
The murky laneway ran north-south for a quarter-mile, tracing a straight line between two looming structures. This part of the district was known for its storechambers of grooll and glass products. He and Heqet had been on the surface for nearly two hours and had made it less than two miles from the Center. At this rate, it would take until dawn to reach the Librarium. And the light of dawn would bring with it a much higher risk of culling or capture.
Not that the risk of culling or capture wasn’t already elevated. So far, he’d encountered a litany of patrols and checkpoints. How in Sha’s name had the Jireni set them up so fast? He knew their escape from the grooll mill would be discovered, but never imagined it would be discovered so quickly.
He edged up the laneway, ears attuned for the telltale hiss of approaching levicarts or levidecks. Each footfall carried him and Heqet closer to the Librarium, but what tarried for them when—and if—they arrived there? Laoshi’s plan hadn’t unveiled that detail. They’d been so focused on internalizing the functions of the grooll mill and learning the techniques to escape its threats that neither he nor Heqet had thought to ask.
It was all he could think about now. How would two prospects—actually, they were neither prospects nor denizens—function in Daqin Guojin? What role could they play other than fugitives? Would they be condemned to stay within the Librarium’s sanctuary, living the rest of their days beyond the reaches of the Jireni? Could such an existence be called living? Wouldn’t it be better to—
A Jireni patrol rounded the corner, two hundred feet to the west. Three armored levidecks inched closer, hull-mounted sidelights illuminating the nooks and alcoves lining the laneway. Their Jireni riders held their dart guns at the ready, glinting barrels trained on the shadows.
Daoren sidestepped into an alcove, heart trip-hammering in his throat. The ten-by-ten space dwelled in shadow, but enough ambient light revealed the outline of a single door with a solitary handle. He hitched Heqet’s body higher and managed to grasp the handle. It remained fixed in place, locked in position.
He cursed under his breath. Another glance up the laneway confirmed the worst; the Jireni were still advancing on their levidecks at a deliberate walking pace. Slow enough to espy two prospects skulking in an alcove. He had less than a minute to find cover.
Confrontation wasn’t an option. Unlike the Jireni outside the Librarium, this patrol had their weapons at the ready. He had nothing with which to defend himself besides his fists. At the very least, he’d have to leave Heqet unattended to engage in hand-to-hand combat. One of the three Jireni could easily stitch her body with glass darts before he had a chance to mitigate the threat.
Another alcove stood across the laneway, fifteen feet away. Its vertical surface bore another single door—one that might be unlocked. It might as well have been fifteen miles away. The patrol was too close; they’d surely notice a boy carrying an unconscious—
A dull creak echoed behind him. Daoren whirled to the locked door.
It opened, revealing a blackened portal. A phlegmy voice leaked from the void. “In here, prospect!”
Daoren stepped inside, gripping Heqet close to his chest. The door closed behind him. The rank odor of effluent assaulted his nose, but nothing penetrated his eyes in the lightless space. He suppressed a gag and held his breath. The foul, blackened expanse seemed to amplify Heqet’s ragged wheezes. Beyond the closed door, the muffled hiss of varinozzles rose and fell as the Jireni patrol inched past. The ominous sound faded to nothing a few seconds later.
Lights flared.
Daoren gasped.
Hundreds of prospects and denizens lined the perimeter of a cavernous storechamber. Men, women, and children of every lineage squatted or lay upon the floor, like heaps of discarded refuse. Their tattered shenyi and pienfu garments boasted soiled blotches. Some wore no sandals. Suppurating wounds mottled their feet.
Daoren turned to the only denizen standing. An old woman. The emaciated Caucasoid wore a sepia shenyi that matched her crinkled skin. Her smile revealed a scattering of rotten teeth.
Daoren gasped anew. It was the woman from the glass market. The one to whom he’d offered his grooll.
“Set her down here,” the woman said, motioning to a clear patch of tiled floor.
Daoren lay Heqet on the floor. She released a low groan, rumpling the cross-hatched scars etching her face. He glanced up at the old woman. “I thought you’d been culled at the glass market.”
“And yet here I stand.”
“But I saw the bust you’d purchased, covered in blood.”
“I was lucky.” She settled onto the floor next to Heqet. “A plump denizen had dropped a generous handful of grooll beside a glass-blowing stall. I crouched to scoop it up. He assumed I meant to pilfer it.”
“Did you?”
The woman grinned. “Well . . . yes, but he didn’t know that. He just assumed the worst and ripped the bust from my hand. He was about to clout me in the head with it when the charges went off.”
“And yet here you stand . . . or sit.”
“The stall’s satchels of silica powder protected me from the worst of the blast.”
Daoren chucklebucked. “And the denizen?”
“Let’s just say that any tunic he purchases in the future will only need one arm.” She shrugged and lowered her gaze to Heqet’s prone form. “She’s a glinty one . . . even with the scarring.” The woman squinted, deepening the crinkles in her brow. “Didn’t she have lovely long braids before?”
Daoren stammered, caught off-guard by her keen powers of observation. At the market, he’d dismissed her as just another—
“How did you get her out of the pod?”
He peered into the woman’s eyes. Only now could he see the well of intelligence behind them. “How did you know she was inside a pod?”
“In another life, I belonged to the ruling caste. My work centered on the grooll mill’s automation sequences.” She nodded at Heqet. “I’d recognize that photonic-cutter pattern anywhere.”
The woman’s tired shenyi bore no resemblance to the finery of the Cognos Populi. Daoren motioned to the grim storechamber. “You abandoned the ruling caste for this?”
“After my son was harvested,” she said. “I couldn’t keep up the pretense any longer, knowing what had happened to him. Knowing what my work would do to other children.”
Daoren scanned the grimy faces lining the storechamber’s perimeter. Most had their eyes closed. On the surface, their expressions conveyed weariness. But the longer he stared, the more they took on a meditative appearance. Serene. “And these people?”
“All have abandoned the lives they once lived,” the woman said. “Some belonged to the ruling caste, but most were members of the under-castes. Our society offered little for them, so they opted to live on its margins as free denizens.”
Daoren nodded. Free denizens rejected the rights conferred by the city-state upon passing the S.A.T., choosing instead to live their lives unbound by the Cognos Populi’s edicts. As a result, they forsook union, abodes, grooll rations, and the other privileges Daqin Guojin’s denizens took for granted. It was a simple choice, but not an easy one. “May I ask what keeps you going?”
The woman offered a drawn-out sigh. “If I had to identify one thing, it w
ould be hope.”
Daoren shook his head. The answer baffled him. What hope could these wretched souls possibly extract from their lives?
“You don’t believe me?”
“Forgive me,” Daoren said, “but I can’t imagine what you could draw hope from.”
“Hope that something better can arise,” the woman said. “That something better will arise if the right kind of people find their way into power.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the surrounding denizens, startling Daoren. He mulled whether to ask who constituted the right kind of people. He opted for a more practical question instead. “How did you know we were outside?”
“We have eyes everywhere. We have to if we’re to survive the long nights.”
Daoren reached out and caressed Heqet’s scarred brow. “We’re trying to get to the Librarium. Do your eyes extend that far?”
“Farther than you can possibly imagine.”
“Could you help us get there?”
The woman smiled, again revealing her rotten teeth. “One can only hope.”
3
Resurrection
LAOSHI GRIPPED THE Stradivarius violin while he paced.
Of the thousands of artifacts stored in the Void, the ancient instrument was his favorite. Its elegant curves and fine craftsmanship usually gave him a visceral connection to the past and a sense of peace, but not now. No matter how hard he squeezed its wooden body, no matter how intently he focused on its swirling grain, he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking or his imagination from conjuring up the most gruesome images of his granddaughter’s demise.
Heqet and Daoren were overdue.
Laoshi glanced at the antechamber’s closed double-doors for the hundredth time and retraced his steps. His mind retraced the steps that had carried him here from the Center.
The mass panic unleashed by the Jireni’s culling spree had let him and Cordelia slip unseen through the southeastern archway. Traversing the lightless Center to the deadened thumps of dart-gun volleys proved to be a haunting experience.
