Sateen
I told Tobit to wait with Oar outside the tower. "Afraid of booby traps?" he asked.
"Yes." I stepped inside the building. Nothing went boom. On the other hand, Jelca's radiation suit wasn't in its hiding place. He had to be wearing it, and watching over his doomsday machine on the top floor.
"All clear," I told Tobit as I came back out. "We'll run Oar inside, then you hightail it back to the ship."
"What are you going to do?"
"Jelca's on the top floor. I'm going to pay him a visit."
"Dressed like that?" He snorted in disbelief. "You know how many rads these damned towers produce? It's one thing to duck in for a second then duck out again — that's no worse than having a few X-rays taken. But if you mosey in, ride the elevator, and spend a few minutes handing Jelca his ass… you won't have a working blood cell left in your body, Ramos. Hell, by the time you get to Jelca, you may not be able to stay on your feet. The only consolation is that the radiation burns will keep your mind off the radiation sickness."
"Wait here," I told him; and I ran into Jelca's home next door. Moments later I ran out again, my arms full of the shimmering shirts and pants I'd seen tossed around Jelca's room. "Radiation gear," I announced, throwing a bundle at him. "Suit up."
Shirt, pants, socks, and gloves. It would have been nice to find a balaclava for head covering, but there was nothing like that. As a substitute, I started wrapping a shirt around my face; but Tobit pulled it away and handed me his helmet. "Happy birthday," he said.
"This is the second birthday present you've given me."
"And I'm keeping count," he replied. "You're going to owe me big, Ramos." He tossed a wad of cloth haphazardly over his own face, proclaimed, "I can't see shit," then stumped back to where Oar lay.
He looked ridiculous-dressed in silver tinsel, the shirt so tight over his belly I could see the indentation of his navel as his gut strained against the fabric. When I put on his helmet, it smelled of rotgut and vomit, almost strong enough to turn my stomach… yet I said to him, "You're a gentleman and Explorer, Phylar."
"Don't turn mushy on me, Ramos." He picked up his end of Oar's cot. "Let's move."
Obstacles
We placed Oar in the center of the first room — right where she'd get the most light. Her body relaxed as the radiation began pouring into her… as if the warmth had already started to ease her pain. Still, she showed no signs of consciousness, and I could hear the ugly crackling in her lungs each time she took a breath. Gently I arranged her body, flat on her back with arms outspread, like a flower open to the sun; then I laid her axe beside her, just as ancient warriors would lie in their tombs with weapons close at hand.
"It's not a fucking burial!" Tobit groaned. "Stop wasting time."
"If you're in a hurry to get back to the ship, feel free to go."
"I'm in a hurry to make sure you can do what you have to," he replied. "In case it hasn't crossed your mind, getting to the top of this tower might not be easy."
"What do you mean?"
"Let's go to the elevator."
He marched toward the center of the building, with me close on his heels. When we reached the elevator, he pressed the call button.
Nothing happened.
"Oops," I said.
"The bastard already proved he can sabotage these things," Tobit pointed out, "although this time, he's likely just locked it off at the top."
"Maybe there are stairs," I suggested.
"Ramps," Tobit replied. "There were ramps in the tower at Morlock-town. The whole building has to be serviceable by robots… and that means the bots need a way to the top in case the elevator itself breaks down." Tobit's cloth-covered head swiveled around; I could imagine him peering through the cloth, straining to see. "That door," he said pointing. "That should go to the ramps. All these towers are likely built on the same design."
I went to the door. The latch moved when I pressed it, but the door wouldn't open.
"Stuck?" Tobit asked.
I stepped back and drove a side kick into the door — not hard enough to endanger my foot, but with plenty of strength to loosen any stickiness from a poorly fitted doorframe.
The metal door boomed from the impact, but did not budge.
"That Jelca boy thinks ahead," Tobit muttered. "He's starting to piss me off."
The Muse of Fire
Tobit and I spent a futile thirty seconds bruising our shoulders as we attempted to break down the door; but it was metal, solid and unyielding — far too strong for us to make more than an ineffectual dent. As we stepped back panting, I said, "Perhaps we should break into the elevator instead."
"And what if we did?" Tobit asked. "You think you can climb eighty storeys, hand-over-hand on the cables?"
"Maybe."
I couldn't see his face under the silvery fabric, but I could feel skepticism radiating toward me.
"All right," I said, "why don't I smash down this door with Oar's axe?"
"You'd break your wrists," he replied. "And there's an easier approach to try first."
He walked into the next room, planted his feet firmly in the midst of the motionless ancestors, and cleared his throat. The next sounds to emerge from his mouth were a mishmash of syllables, some falsetto, others bass, some so liquid they dripped with saliva, others harsh like a man choking. The tone was strong but not forced — commanding and confident. When he finally paused, I could hear rustling from every corner of the room. Closed eyes blinked. Fingers twitched.
"You speak their language?" I whispered in amazement.
"I've been Grand Poobah to the Morlocks for eight years, Ramos. You think I let the glass glow under my feet?" He turned back to the ancestors and spoke again, his arms spread wide, his diction clear.
In one corner of the room, a glass arm moved. Closer to hand, a glass head lifted, blinked and stared.
Someone sighed. Someone else took a deep purposeful breath.
"I thought their brains were mush," I whispered.
"Just bored," Tobit replied. "You can catch their attention if you give them something they've never heard before."
"So what are you saying?"
"What I remember from Henry V — some asshole of an admiral forced every academy instructor to teach a Shakespeare course. Now I'm telling the glassies, 'Once more unto the breach,' and all that crap. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, break down the door." He paused. "I don't know how the fuck I'm going to translate 'Saint Crispin's day.' "
But he rose to the challenge. Tobit orated, and his audience answered. I can't imagine the ancestors understood much of what he said — even if Tobit spoke their language, these people wouldn't know what to make of a "muse of fire" or "Harry, England and Saint George!" Nor did I think Tobit could stir their souls with Shakespearean poetry… not translating off the cuff and from memory. More than anything, he was getting through to them on the strength of sheer novelty: they had never heard a man in silver lame harangue them to attack France, and it was bringing them to their feet.
Mouths twisted into smiles. After centuries of dormancy, something had changed — changed for all of them. Even those who had been slow to rouse themselves were sitting up with interest, their eyes glittering.
Hands clenched into fists. Spines straightened proudly. Tobit pointed at the locked door.
Ten seconds later, the door was no longer an obstacle.
My Present
"I can take it from here!" I shouted to Tobit. My ears still rang from the thunder of glass shoulders, strong as rhinos, smashing the metal door down.
"You're sure?" Tobit asked.
"Get back to the ship before it blasts off."
"What if you need more help?"
"Don't be stubborn, Phylar. I'm giving you a ticket home… as a birthday present."