He pushed a button, waited impatiently, got in the car when it arrived, pressed for the topmost floor: the fortieth.
Bartholomew followed calmly.
The car rose.
Bartholomew asked, ‘You understand what we’re passing through now?’
Malenfant glanced at the information panels. ‘Seems more technical than the lower levels. Science disciplines, most of which I don’t understand, versus eras and epochs down below, most of which I didn’t understand either. This is where the scholars come to play.’
‘Correct. All the Pylons have such areas. And all are interconnected.’
‘Like one big university. All those Pylons.’
‘The Codex Pylons focus on history, archaeology, understandably.’ He eyed Malenfant. ‘So are you impressed?’
‘Kind of. But I’d have been more impressed by something more advanced than a rattly old elevator that wouldn’t have looked all that out of place in the Woolworth building, circa 1915. Sometimes I think I’m going through a kind of negative culture shock, you know what I mean? It’s not just the differences between my time and yours. You’d expect that. It’s all the stuff you haven’t done, or haven’t got.’
‘We – I mean, humanity – had a world to clean up, Malenfant. And anyhow, even if we had antigravity elevator shafts, cables and brakes are always going to be safer.’
‘And that’s the Asimovian robot talking.’
This second elevator came to a halt. Fortieth floor. Now they emerged into another elevator lobby, but the place was a lot less sleek. Beyond semi-transparent walls Malenfant saw heavy, complex machinery, pipes and ducts and cables, a three-dimensional maze interpenetrated by gantries, even basic-looking staircases.
‘Facilities,’ Malenfant guessed.
‘Correct.’ Bartholomew led him to yet another elevator. ‘I’m not going to oppose you. Not yet. I’ve downloaded schematics of the building. If you want to go higher yet – this way.’
This time the elevator was a transparent cage. They rose through a jungle of heavy machinery.
Bartholomew said, ‘Infrastructure. Most of this stuff is air conditioning – cooling gear . . . You seem distracted.’
‘Just remembering.’
‘What?’
‘Cape Canaveral. Riding the gantry to the shuttle cabin. It was kind of like this. An elevator ride up through a tangle of huge machinery.’
Bartholomew quietly rested his hand on Malenfant’s shoulder.
Again the elevator crawled to a halt. Sixtieth floor.
Now they emerged onto an open deck that seemed to span the building – a deck that seemed not so wide as those lower, and that was logical, as Malenfant recalled the Pylon’s narrowing upper architecture. There were big picture windows all around the walls, and the floor was set with tables, chairs, water fountains, what looked like printers for food and drink. And even telescopes, on stands by the windows. Some kind of viewing deck, then. Tourist stuff. Also a lounge for busy academics to take a break, maybe.
Followed by Bartholomew, Malenfant explored the handful of elevator doors. All of them showed only destinations on lower floors. No way to get any higher by that route, then.
Malenfant walked to a window. Pressed his forehead against what felt like toughened glass. He found himself looking down the smooth sweep of the Pylon to its wide, flaring base, the ancient grid plan of Chester beneath, and the open country beyond, soon yielding to sea, a cluttered waterscape broken by reefs of brick and concrete and glittering glass.
Just here, he was somewhere near the narrowest waist of the building, he realised. Looking down he saw the wall sweep down to a broadening skirt, and above his head the wall of the widening structure seemed to loom over his head.
The window was sealed tight.
He walked around the perimeter of the room. All the windows, he wasn’t surprised to learn, were sealed just as seamlessly.
Bartholomew watched patiently.
Malenfant came back to him. ‘OK. How do we get further?’
‘You mean, higher? There’s nothing above us. Nothing but twenty floors of more structural stuff. No access for people, because it’s not needed. Maintenance bots only.’
‘I think you’ve guessed where I want to get to.’
‘Maybe. If not why. The roof?’
‘The roof,’ Malenfant said. ‘The pinnacle of this damn spire. I saw from the air there’s a flat area up there.’ He grinned. ‘I think I even saw a rail. I’m sure I did. So I’m not the first idiot to try to get up there, on one Pylon or another. They had to put in minimal safety features.’
‘I have only the dimmest idea why you would want to do that.’
‘Me too. So it will be a voyage of discovery for both of us.’
‘It’s impossible anyhow. I told you, bots only. There’s no access to the upper levels or the exterior.’
‘Not yet, there isn’t.’ Malenfant looked around, picked a chair at random, hefted it, walked towards a window.
Bartholomew followed him.
‘Here’s the deal,’ Malenfant said. ‘You’re going to find a way for me to get to that roof. Or I break out of here myself.’
‘You’re my patient. I can’t allow you to endanger yourself.’
Malenfant narrowed his eyes. ‘Then find an option where I don’t endanger myself.’
‘What do you mean?’
Facing the window, Malenfant got hold of the chair by two legs, and swung it as hard as he could against whatever passed for glass up here. The window didn’t break, of course, but he felt the impact in his arms.
‘Malenfant, stop that.’
‘Like hell. Until you provide me with a way up to that roof, I’m going to keep trying to find my own way. Starting with smashing this window with this chair. If that doesn’t work, when I’ve used up the chairs, I’ll try the tables, maybe. Or maybe I’ll start smashing my way through the wall partitions, and get into the guts of the place. And then—’
‘You’re being absurd.’
‘Until the building breaks, or I break. That’s the deal, Bartholomew.’
And he took another almighty swing at the window. The noise of the collision was huge; the impact poured pain into his hands, elbows, shoulders.
Bartholomew looked anguished. ‘Look, there’s going to be no safe way up to that roof.’
‘I know that. But there must be a way. Otherwise, why the rail? I’m not going to stop, Bartholomew. You know me well enough by now to understand that.’
Bartholomew sighed, a very human response. ‘Oh, I know you, Malenfant. And I know you are serious. That doesn’t make this right.’
‘Not right. Just inevitable.’
‘All right. Put the chair down. Give me two hours.’
‘One hour.’
‘Very well. Sit. Be still. Have something to eat, drink. Try to be calm.’ He shook his head and walked towards one of the elevator shafts. ‘I’m going to need recommissioning after this.’ He pressed a button to open the elevator doors, went into the brightly lit car, let the doors close behind him.
After a couple of minutes Malenfant heard the sound of banging from somewhere overhead, a regular steam-hammer thump.
Malenfant nodded. ‘I’m coming, Emma, wherever you are. One step at a time. I’m coming for you.’
Yes, said a small voice of doubt inside his head, but which Emma do you mean?
24
In the event it took little more than half an hour before he saw Bartholomew again.
Half an hour, after which the android appeared outside one window.
Outside the building.
Upside down. Malenfant couldn’t see how he was supported.
He had what looked like a blade in one hand, but when he pressed it against the window, a spot glowed brilliant white, and there was an immediate smell of burning.
Malenfant turned his face away, shielding his eyes, and moved to the back of the deck.
At last the light faded, there was a ki
nd of sucking noise, and a blast of hot, moist air penetrated the room. Malenfant turned back.
Still Bartholomew hung upside down outside the window. But now, Malenfant could see clearly, a hole had been cut in the window, maybe a metre across, what looked like a geometrically perfect circle. Well, it would be perfect.
Bartholomew threw a tangle of rope through the hole, and beckoned Malenfant. ‘Strap yourself into that.’
Malenfant picked up the tangle. The rope was about as thick as his thumb, white, evidently strong. From some contingency supply? But its end had been knotted into a kind of cradle.
‘You put your legs through the two big holes,’ Bartholomew called, pointing. ‘Your arms through the two smaller holes. You wrap that loop around your chest—’
‘I don’t need a baby-walker. I’m an astronaut. I can climb a rope, for God’s sake.’
Bartholomew delivered a magnificent glare, considering he was hanging upside down. He said, ‘This is as far as I’m prepared to push it, Malenfant. Do it my way, or I’ll drag you out of that window and just drop you and let you slalom all the way down this Pylon to the base. You know why? Because it would be less risky than letting you crawl around out here without a tether, like Spider-Bot.’
‘Spider-Man.’
‘Spider-Bot. Reboot. 2040s. Look, are you going to do as I say or—’
‘I’ll do it. Jeez.’
So Malenfant tied himself up in the harness, feeling like an infant. Then, following Bartholomew’s precise instructions, with Bartholomew holding on to the rope, he climbed through the hole in the window, sat on the rim with his feet dangling over the drop – and, with a leap of faith, pushed himself out.
The rope cradle swung, but he was held firm. He was hanging in the air from the sloping wall, legs spread. The air was surprisingly cool, the breeze strong. Resolutely, he did not look down.
Bartholomew was still upside down, just above him. ‘Now keep quiet, hang on, and try not to throw up.’
Malenfant swivelled his head to watch as Bartholomew, with a slightly inhuman flexibility, worked his way around until he was facing up the wall, then started to climb. The rope connecting to Malenfant’s cradle was tied around his waist – Malenfant was basically dangling from the robot by this rope – and as Bartholomew climbed, the cradle, with Malenfant, was lifted steadily, smoothly.
After a couple of minutes of this, Bartholomew called over the breeze, ‘How are you doing down there?’
‘Fine.’
‘Tell me if you have any problems.’
‘Sure. And the same for you.’
Bartholomew laughed. ‘Right.’
Now, as they climbed, they passed what looked like a hole that had been blasted out of the wall, from the inside, leaving broken, shattered panels. Above this scar were what looked like a series of hand- and foot-holds, punched into the surface. In one place Malenfant was sure he could see the indentations left by knuckles, as if a clenched fist had been driven into soft clay.
At last they reached the roof platform.
Bartholomew clambered over a rail and an inward-sloping glass wall, and with one last heave dragged Malenfant over, and dumped him, none too gently, on the hard floor.
Malenfant disentangled himself from the harness and stood up. A glance around revealed an open locker, stocked with rope, what looked like basic medical gear, other stuff.
‘I’m impressed,’ Malenfant said. ‘You found a way up after all. Although there were evidently helpful supplies to hand. So if no idiot is allowed up here, why the flat surface? Why the barrier? Why the cache of rope?’
Safety features, Malenfant.
The voice sounded in his ear. ‘Kleio?’
Good afternoon, Malenfant. I wish I could say it is a pleasure to speak to you again. The safety features are there because, as I heard you guess, every so often people do come up here, with permission or not. We have a duty of care. There are also occasional calamities. Such as even, once, a parachutist entangled on the Pylon. Such events are a hazard of sharing a world with humans.
Malenfant thought that over. It wasn’t the first joke he’d heard one of these AIs make. If it was a joke.
There was a faint sound of shouting, apparently coming from the base of the tower.
Bartholomew and Malenfant glanced at each other, and walked back to the rail.
Malenfant, now he had time to observe it, found the rail was a pretty effective safety barrier, with that three-metre, mostly transparent wall that sloped inwards over his head. ‘Hmm. Impossible to climb over.’
‘True, but you can look down,’ Bartholomew said.
It was awkward, and Malenfant had to duck his head under the barrier, but he was rewarded with a partial view of the external wall. He was almost looking down on one arm of the crossbar, a massive extension in itself, but he could see past it all the way to the Pylon’s splayed base, far below.
A new voice in his head. ‘I can see you, Malenfant!’
Malenfant touched his ear. ‘Deirdra?’
Bartholomew shrugged. ‘The magic of modern technology, Malenfant.’
Malenfant made her out now, on the ground below, just beyond the tower apron. A tiny figure who jumped, waved.
She called, ‘I wanted to see if you could hear me just by shouting.’
‘I thought you were going home.’
‘While you’re having all the fun? Not a chance. I sent the flyer back, though.’
‘I bet that pleased your mother.’
‘Not much. She’s on her way here. With Prefect Morrel.’
‘Oh, wow,’ he said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Now we’re in trouble.’
It will be the Prefect’s job to escort you down from here, Malenfant.
‘Really? And what if I resist arrest?’
It won’t be an arrest.
‘They won’t arrest me,’ Bartholomew muttered. ‘But I might get reprogrammed. Even decommissioned.’
‘No, they won’t,’ Deirdra said firmly. ‘But I don’t really understand what you’re looking for up there.’
Malenfant sighed. ‘Emma. The real Emma, or the best Retrieved this lash-up can supply. By which I mean records plus DNA. That’s what I’m looking for, Deirdra.’
‘How are you going to find her up there?’
‘Well, that’s a little obscure. But there is method in my madness. Look up there.’ He pointed up over his head, while looking down at her, and he distinctly saw Deirdra’s pale face turn to the sky.
Where two flyers hovered over the Pylon.
‘Eyes in the sky. And look out there.’ He waved a hand, indicating the spaces beyond the Pylon’s grounds.
Bartholomew stepped up to the barrier and looked out. ‘Deirdra. Tap into my visual feed . . .’
The Pylon loomed over Chester, the clutter of buildings within the ancient walls, the wider, sprawling modern settlements beyond, white studding the green. And everywhere across this landscape people were moving, coming out of their houses, trickling in slow, gathering processions through the streets towards the Pylon base. Malenfant could even see boats on the shallow sea that now covered much of north-west England, creating feathery wakes as they headed towards the higher ground of the city.
‘Soon these images will be all over the planet, right? I mean, it’s a slow news day. Jeez, every day is a slow news day in this century. But people always like a show, Deirdra. They will always come see the crazy guy, right?’
He walked away from the barrier towards the centre of this aerial platform. He was aware of Bartholomew quietly waiting by the barrier, watching.
He opened his arms wide, and turned around, face lifted to the hovering flyers. ‘Can you hear me up there? And down there? All over? My name is Reid Malenfant. You know me. I’m the guy who crashed the space shuttle, and ended up in a freezer tray for four hundred years . . .’
Of course they would come to see what he was up to. They knew who he was, like the woman in the Answerer hall who had recognised him, almost.
On a planet starved of novelty, he surely stood out. And now here he was putting on a rooftop show.
‘I’m Reid Malenfant. And I’m back. I’m back! And, you want to know what I want? All I ever wanted, really . . .
‘I want my family back.
‘I married Emma. Emma Stoney. Look her up. She was a real hero, not like me. She died in deep space, exploring a unique strangeness on behalf of all mankind. And we had a son. My deepest regret, among many, is that I never saw what he achieved in his life. His name was Michael. Michael Malenfant.
‘And I just know, I know, that the children of Michael are out there somewhere. Watching this. And you know who you are – I mean, you know your legacy. That’s what this whole damn Codex project of yours is all about, right? So you can all know who you are. And you, children of Michael, you know who I am. Why, I bet you’ve found ways to watch me since I came out of the freezer. Haven’t you?
‘Well, here I am. And you know why I need you to come here, to come to me. For her. So the Codex AIs can use your DNA to work their magic, and bring my wife back to me.
‘So I’m waiting.’ Arms still outstretched, he stalked around the roof, turning around and around, showing himself to the two hovering flyers – no, there were three now, a fourth approaching, a fifth – and then he went back to the barrier so the crowds in Chester could catch a real, live glimpse of the crazy man too. ‘I’m waiting! For you, children of Michael, children of my child! I’m waiting!’
When he ran down at last, Bartholomew, staring at him, began to clap, slowly.
Then Malenfant heard a ripple of sound, like waves on shingle, washing up from the ground.
Once more he pressed up against the barrier, looked down. There was a respectable crowd down there now, and he saw parked-up flyers and ground cars among them.
And they were all clapping. Some discreetly, some boldly, some with hands over their heads, a few whoops. A still-gathering crowd, clapping, clapping.
World Engine Page 15
