Only the servants of old Earth—Menders and Shapers mostly—were given dispensation to remain primordial. Many converted anyway. For a time even Ghentun had succumbed—before being recruited as Keeper. Noötic matter guaranteed safer and more cooperative environments, more efficient thought-patterns, and more diverse and minutely controlled utilities. In noötics, each particle was preprogrammed with a variety of behaviors, which could be integrated into unparalleled servitude. The complete mental control of one’s noötic self led most such intelligences, over the last ages of the Trillennium, into eccentricities without number—but guaranteed their dominance. For Ghentun, the legends of the Mass Wars still contained one great lesson. In the society of would-be-gods, a humble man is always polite.
The photon disc passed swiftly through alternating regions of mass and light, solid dwellings and roads along which solid citizens moved, yet when that motion tired them, the citizens lifted like whirlwinds to whisk off to more ethereal paths—wit-courts pulsing with the arts and challenges of ten trillion years of history.
The disc flew over ribbon boroughs populated by former Devas, who now refused any but a narrow band of extreme technologies. They insisted that their boroughs be stacked like spools, slowly unwinding ribbons of renewal and locality, each half a mile wide and festooned with pop-up dwellings, experience galleries, and regeneration farms. Crowds of images—projections of the boroughs’ citizens—took shape around Ghentun, exhibiting vague curiosity—but seeing only a lone and lesser Mender, they flattened and faded like cast-aside portraits.
Sometimes, Ghentun felt that the more advanced urbs in the Kalpa were no less strange than the Chaos outside—until he saw the Chaos again. The high urbs and ribbon boroughs were positively cozy and familiar by comparison.
Even here it’s difficult to misplace your wit—your soul—but out there, beyond the border of the real…
The photon disc wove expertly, dancing a pretty path for its own amusement, it seemed, then slowed and communicated across the last miles with the Astyanax’s security detail, swarms of machines little different except in size—and deadly power—from the wardens in the Tiers. On the highest level of the Kalpa, surrounding the roots of the Broken Tower, urbs like tremendous jellyfish rose from mountainous foundations, capped by a diffuse blue glow that spread across the ceil. They slowly undulated vertical fins six to eight miles high, glowing purple, green, and red. Looked at more closely, the fins resolved into stacked horizontal dwellings, always shifting with respect to those above and below, never repeating the same perspective.
Each housed millions of Eidolons.
Even here, in the last city…
Boredom, boredom, repetitions of endless amusement, followed by sad forgetting, then fresh delight…
A tiny bright image appeared among the swarms of sentinels as the disc approached the reception platform—a sphere sporting an equatorial belt of emerald light, the scepter that announced the presence and privileges of the Astyanax of the Kalpa.
The sentinels verified Ghentun and parted to give way.
Ghentun stepped onto the platform and the disc vanished with a small pop, liberating a blue glow that spread across the floor, leaving behind red and gold polygons—ritual displays as old as the office of the Astyanax himself.
The polygons spread to mark the Keeper’s path.
The path led to a simple door. Through that door, he knew, lay the Astyanax’s most private dwellings and offices. For the first time, this Keeper of the Tiers was being allowed a meeting with the last City Prince in his innermost sanctum.
CHAPTER 40
The Tiers
The young breeds returned from their expedition clutching only three books—and Tiadba had found all of them.
Khren and the others had split off after a few hours and moved on to other amusements. Jebrassy accompanied Tiadba to her niche, where she laid out the shake cloths and Grayne’s cape on a table, then arranged three jars packed with borrowed letterbugs.
He stood back, awed by these proceedings—he had never thought letterbugs would be of much use, had once felt contempt for those who raised and traded them. And now—to use them to read an actual book, in an ancient alphabet—he was not superstitious, but the room already seemed too full of the ghostly past.
Beyond the balcony, the first orange light of a new wake spread across the ceil. Tiadba looked down on the jars and the books with pride. “My crèche mates have always wanted to know what their old bugs have to say.” Her face gleamed as she glanced over her shoulder at Jebrassy, in the shadows.
“How long will this take?” he asked.
“We have less than ten wakes until the march. If we don’t sleep…” She touched the fine fur on her nose, then gave him a taunting, humming whistle. “Frightened, warrior?”
“You better believe it,” he said. “You should be, too.”
“We’ve seen and done so much together. We’ve found our books.”
“You’ve found yourbooks,” Jebrassy corrected.
“We’re going to be trained for a march. What more could we want—what could possibly frighten us now?”
Tiadba pinned up the shake cloth, already marked with the common symbols and the words most often spelled out by younger letterbugs. Their task would be to make notes of the words that the old bugs formed from their unfamiliar letters; compare them to the new—find similarities; then transliterate. Perhaps then they could puzzle through the books, like Grayne and her sisterhood before them.
“The books won’t let us know what’s out there now, more’s the pity,” Tiadba said. “Your visitor said last sleep…”
“What else did my visitorsay?” Jebrassy asked, face wrapped in a scowl. “Did you make love with him?”
“One question at a time,” Tiadba said, touching both her ears. Jebrassy liked that elevated, tutorial gesture least of all among this glow’s mannerisms. The trouble was, her other gestures and touches he didlike…too much.
There was no going back, with or without visitors, with or without a book.
“He said very little,” Tiadba remembered. “He wasn’t cheerful. There seemed to be trouble in his world. He was facing a challenge. And no, we did notmake love. We’re much too disoriented when we stray. What he said was, the book talks about a journey far outside the Kalpa, toward the stars,whatever that means.”
“I’m getting tired of being taken,” Jebrassy said, using the word for a squatter’s habitation of someone else’s niche. “And even more tired of being ignorant.” He hitched up his short curtus before squatting on a stool next to the table. “So, down the chute with it. Spread the bugs.”