As if he'd dreamed the sound. But he hadn't dreamed it. And that meant one of two things. Either there'd been an unprecedented breach of security, or someone high up in Security had let the intruders in.
The obvious course of action was to call Li Yuan and ask him to send someone in. Karr, perhaps. But that was the last thing Ben wanted, because it would be a shame if he didn't find a way to use this—to harness it for his art.
Behind him the brass doorknob half turned, then rattled.
"Ben? Are you in there?"
It was his sister, Meg. He glanced at the timer. Six fourteen. She was up early. Very early, considering they had been working so late.
"I'm working," he called out, knowing even as he said it that it wouldn't satisfy her. "Make breakfast. I'll be down in a while."
He could sense her hesitation, could almost feel her curiosity through the wooden door, then there was the creak of floorboards as she made her way back down the passage.
He sat back, considering his options. If Meg knew what was going on she would want to call in the troops. She would be frightened, concerned for their safety. And there was no need. He could take care of this himself.
He stared at the map a moment, then, looking back at the keyboard, began reprogramming the remotes, one by one sending the tiny eyes shooting southward, out over the town and its tiny harbor, out past Warfleet Cove and the ancient castle, and on, toward the sea.
Out there, they'd be. Somewhere out there. At the Blackstone, maybe, or Castle Ledge, or sheltering by the Mew Stone . . .
No. He dismissed the thought. There wasn't shelter for a family of mice out there, let alone a human settlement. Not a single island or outcrop from Start Point in the south to Exmouth in the north, only the smooth, white walls of the City, towering over the land and dropping sheer into the sea. There was the odd rock, of course, jutting a dozen yards or so above the rough waves' surface, but there was no chance they might have settled one of those. The first high tide would have washed them away. Even so, he had to look, because the intruders must have come from somewhere.
He looked up at the screen once more, watching as the remote skipped above the surface of the wind-ruffled water. Slowly, like a shadow looming at the back of things, the great Mewstone grew, its jagged spine silhouetted sharply against the morning sky.
For a moment he was struck by the simple beauty of the scene; by the interplay of light and dark; the exhilaration of pure movement. He could use this, maybe. Tie it in somehow.
Sunlight winked, winked again, then flooded the screen with light. And then darkness. Sudden, absolute darkness, as the remote went beneath the wall of rock that rose forty yards above the water.
He slowed the eye, widening the aperture to let in as much light as possible, getting the computer to enhance the image, but there was nothing. Nothing but sea and rock.
He switched, impatient now, picking up one of the remotes he had sent south past the Dancing Beggars. At once he saw it, there, some two or three hundred yards off, slightly to the left. A boat. A strange, incredible boat.
The deck was a broad, ungainly raft of railway sleepers lashed tightly together, the weight of the hull—more a decorative border than a true hull—making the craft dip dangerously low in the water.
He moved the remote closer, scanning its length. Broken TV sets and car fenders, refrigerator doors, hubcaps and radios, their innards gutted, had been tied together with electric cable. Computer keyboards and anglepoise lamps, vacuum cleaner hoses, video machines and coffee percolators, satellite receiver dishes, steering wheels and electric toasters, all had been welded into a single mass that formed a low wall about the raft.
It was like a collage, a great collage of once-familiar things. Things from that great, sprawling, dynamic, intensely technological world that had existed before the City.
Ben laughed softly, delighted, then, with a grunt of satisfaction, he gave the eye full power, skimming it quickly past the raft and on.
Out here it was. Somewhere out here. But what? A man-made island, perhaps? An ancient sailing vessel? Or was it something else?
To his right the City dominated the skyline, a smooth wall of whiteness following the coast in a long, staggered zigzag, its unnatural cliffs towering two li above the breaking waves. To his left the sunlit sea was calm and empty. As the seconds passed, excitement dulled to uncertainty. What if there were nothing but the raft?
And then he saw it, low and far to the left, its outline glinting in the sunlight, a faint wisp of smoke going up into the brightness. He slowed the remote, changing its direction, sending it out on a path that would skirt the vessel to its south.
Again he felt his heartbeat quicken, his mouth grow dry with anticipation. A raft, it was—a raft! But bigger, much bigger than the other. So big, in fact, that he sat back with a small laugh of surprise. And not just one, but several. Huge things, bigger than anything he'd ever seen or imagined could exist. Slowly he lifted the remote, climbing the sky, until he was hovering high above the strange armada, looking down.
There were five of them: massive constructs, perfectly hexagonal, like patches from a giant quilt, a li to each side, loosely stitched together by rope bridges in a dozen places. Moored here and there at the edges were a number of smaller rafts, like the one he had seen in the estuary.
Ben stared, fascinated, at the nearest of the rafts, taking in its details. Earth had been piled onto the raft, covering its surface to some depth—tons, thousands of tons, of earth. Dark, fruitful earth that was covered now in places by lush green grass, in others by orderly rows of plants and vegetables. At the center was a tiny settlement of thirty huts, clustered in a circle about a central meetinghouse. Paths went out from the settlement; paths dotted here and there with storehouses and water storage towers.
He tilted the remote, looking. All five of the rafts were organized on the same ancient principle, the only distinguishing feature being the size of the meetinghouse of the central raft.
There, he thought; that's where I'll get my answers. And, moving his hand gently, carefully over the controls, he sent the remote down, in a long, lazy spiral, toward the broad, low ceiling of the meetinghouse.
MEG STOOD on the bottom lawn, looking out across the bay, angry with him. Two hours had passed since he'd said he'd come and still there was no sign of him.
The tide was in. Beneath her feet, at the bottom of the tiny runged ladder that was set into the concrete bank, the tiny rowboat bobbed gently. She had been tempted to take it out and damn him, but beneath her anger was a burning curiosity. For almost a year now he had included her, at every stage and in every decision, but now—for no apparent reason—he had locked her out again: physically, the door barred against her entry.
She looked about her at the wooded slopes, the cottages, and beyond them all the Wall. Some days she felt so lonely here, so isolated, and yet it never seemed to touch Ben. Never. It was as if he enjoyed the empty streets, the lifeless simulacra that, apart from the three of them and the guards, were the sole inhabitants of the Domain. As if this were enough for him. But she had realized, long ago now, that she was missing something.
She touched her top teeth with her tongue, then shook her head. It was as if she couldn't even think it, for to think it would be close to saying it, and saying it would seem a betrayal of Ben. And yet the thought remained.