But the woman died four centuries before, of old age. One of the few women of her century to do so—many more succumbed to plague, or childbirth, or the gynocides, or were executed as political prisoners, or herded into research facilities where their wombs were used to give birth to the Ascendants’ nightmares.
And so now only Nefertity might recall the woman’s name; but the Beautiful One is sleeping. As she sleeps she dreams of the woman in the bunker, the woman eating krill paste and halvah with her fingers and afterward leaving a sweet smear across Nefertity’s mouth. In another time or place, mice or flies would then have crept across the nemosyne’s sticky mouth to feed; but the woman had long since eaten them. Decades passed and the woman lived on, alone in the bunker with her books and her ’files and the gorgeous machine she had stolen when the American Vatican fell to the recusants. And through all those after years she alone spoke to the Beautiful One, whispered her secrets, warned her of the enemy, shared with her ’files and books and paintings and programs and films and holos and songs. Into Nefertity’s cold and boundless heart the woman poured all her dreams and memories, like shining sand into a glittering pit; and Nefertity swallowed them all, she embraced them, she recalled them, she recorded them, she devoured them. The woman would die one day but Nefertity would not. Nefertity would remember, Nefertity would never ever forget.
And so the woman brought them on, raging as she strove against madness and age and illness, struggling to recall for the nemosyne’s databanks all those other women whose histories would otherwise be forgotten. The woman groaned and mumbled, dragging them by hair and breasts and hands, pummeling them as she tore volumes and photographs and tapes from her shelves, until one by one they all fell into the maw of the Beautiful One—
The Venus of Willendorf, the Animal Wife, the Bog Woman, the Iron Age Princess, Queen Hatshepsut, Cleopatra burning on the Nile, Nike headless and winged like dawn, Brisingamen wearing the rainbow’s ardor about her neck, Demeter’s tears burning grapes upon the vine, Sappho’s leap, George Sand’s trousers, Mary Godwin sneezing as she molded the new Prometheus from the Mediterranean mud, Judith and Salome carrying their lovers’ heads beneath plump arms, Garbo talking, Sarah Bernhardt sleeping in her coffin, Queen Victoria spinning in hers, Mary Pickford, Mary Quant, Mary Magdalene, Mary Queen of Scotts, Sei Shonagun, Lady Murasaki, Yll Peng-Si the Tyrant of the Mongolian Nuclear Republic, Sylvia Plath, Gracie Allen, Hedda Morestein, Anne Frank, Indira Gandhi, Fasa Manh-Tul, Kyra MacDougal, Gertrude Stein, Artemis, Astarte, Inanna, Kali, The Norns, The Fates, The Grey Sisters, the Supremes, Margaret Thatcher, Magda Kurtz, Lizzie Siddal, Kwan-Lin, Loretta Riding, Nefertity…
A thousand of them, a million—
And when she died the woman left the nemosyne in her case, and on the case a set of hieroglyphs spelling out her history, and instructions for her use, and beneath that the nemosyne’s name scratched into the plasteel shell—
NFRTI: Nefertity. I Am The Million.
The Beautiful Ones Are Here.
Hobi could not sleep. For hours he tossed in bed, listening for the sound of his father’s return from the dream inquisition, staring glassy-eyed at the mess surrounding him while he rubbed his feverish cheeks. He kept seeing that black pit in the Undercity, hearing the chilly voice of the Architects intoning There is a breach in the fundus of Angels as the monitors filled with glowing letters spelling out terrible warnings he could not understand.
But mostly, he thought of Nefertity. That was what filled his mind: the golden face of the sleeping nemosyne with the twisted hieroglyphs and archaic letters across her brow. The sharp nose, the arched cheekbones tipped with silver, the chin pointed but rounded at the end (like his own, if he had only known it) and chased with silver threads like water flowing across her crystal flesh. Most of all, her eyes. Slanted eyes, even as she slept he knew they were beautiful eyes, and trapped such strange things! What face had she looked on last? When she awoke now to see him, would she falter and perhaps cry out?
Hobi moaned and turned onto his back, threw his arm across his forehead as he stared at the ceiling. She was a replicant. Even when designed for sexual congress (and few of them were: there were other things for that, argalæ and aardmen and even, he had heard once to his disgust, rasas), even when created as robotic courtesans, replicants could not respond appropriately to their human partners, not really: because of course they were only machines. Beautiful machines, sleek and clean of line as dolphins, but no more capable of loving response than one of Shiyung Orsina’s mutated animals.
Hobi knew all this, of course. He had slept with boys, more often with girls; and with one of his human tutors he had visited a brothel on Principalities, and engaged a moujik woman. All of these experiences had been, if not precisely memorable, at least satisfactory. He knew from books and ’files that there was supposed to be some more severe level of attachment involved with other humans; all the great stories said so. But one didn’t see evidence of these attachments on the upper levels of Araboth. His father had been grief-stricken by his wife’s murder, but when she was alive he spent a good deal of time pursuing girl children and leaving her to the ministrations of her own cohort of artistic young men. To be sure, the affairs that convulsed Cherubim and Seraphim were nearly always between men and men, or men and women, or women and women. There had been Zubin Billimoria’s obsession with the rasa of a deformed moujik child, of course, but everyone agreed that his passion was sentimental to the point of grossness. And on the upper levels it was considered very gauche to tryst with androids.
Why then couldn’t Hobi forget Nefertity’s metal face, or the sound—a chime that seemed to have followed him back to Cherubim, he swore that thin silvery sound was what kept him from sleeping—he had heard when first he gazed upon her? The Beautiful One, Nasrani had called her; Nasrani the clockwork man.
Hobi closed his eyes and thought of the exile going from one cabinet to the next in his cyclorama, waking the Titanium Children and Maximillian Ur. He would find Nasrani and go with him to the Undercity, and find her once again. And somehow, somehow he would wake her.
He did not rise until the following evening. Red-eyed and smelling of brandy, he stumbled out to where his father sat in the dim main room, staring at a mercury lamp. Sajur wore the same black suit and turban he’d had on yesterday. He had removed his emerald mourning bands and lined them up neatly on the small table in front of him. His Imperator’s chain of office, with its golden crucifix and opaline eye, hung around the neck of the lantern.
“Good morning,” Hobi muttered. He sank onto a brocade pillow and called to Khum down the hall, “Kehveh please.”
Sajur Panggang reached out to the mercury lamp and touched its glass chimney, watching the silver liquid stream toward his hand. “ ‘Good evening’ is more like it. Are you ill?”
“A little.” Hobi shivered and pulled his robe tighter around him. With surprise he noted an empty decanter on the table by his father. Next to it was a crumpled sheet of allurian tissue from one of the computer imprimaturs, flickering gold and purple upon the marquetry tabletop. Âziz’s stationary. He’d last seen it after his mother’s death. “Has—did something happen?”
Sajur sat in silence for a few minutes, tapping the edge of the crucifix against the mercury glass and humming a tune that had been popular last Æstival Tide. Tomorrow the gamelan orchestras would be banging it out again, as the crowds waited for the Lahatiel Gate to swing open. Hobi cleared his throat and started to ask about the Investiture, but thought better of it.
At last the replicant Khum returned with a salver of kehveh. Sajur Panggang’s demitasse steamed at his elbow unnoticed. Hobi spooned sweetener into his and sipped it, eyeing his father uneasily. Outside, Cherubim’s residential canyons glowed crimson and gold, and the nuclear CLOCK read near midnought, but still Sajur had not switched on any lights save that single glimmering lamp.