Fugue, page 105
The motorcycle was a big one, built for two people and a lot of slow, highway cruising. I expected a Harley-Davidson logo, but no. In this world, Cadillac built a line of motorcycles. Massive, comfortable ones, from the look of it. Of course, with most of the seat burned away, the paint seared off, and scorch marks everywhere, it was far from an ideal example.
I waved a hand and my cloak extended, covering it with darkness, but not moving it anywhere. It was merely covered and smothered. A moment later, it was merely hot, not burning. I set it upright and put down the kickstand. The wheels still had rubber on them, but they were less tires and more coating, now.
The train jolted slightly. Bronze reported she manually switched to avoid a collision, as well as overrode an automatic stopping device for runaway trains.
“Keen. Where are we going?”
She planned to get farther uptown, past Central Park, maybe somewhere in Harlem. Then we could get her into the bike, out of the tunnel, and into a real vehicle again.
I glanced at the slightly-smoking motorcycle.
“You came down here in that thing? You’re braver than I thought.”
She was hanging out with Phoebe while I was off doing my thing. A little earlier, she was cruising the city in a weenie little electric car when I discovered I had a problem. She immediately bumped into something with a bit more guts and headed my way. When she realized the nature of her own problem, she switched again, this time into the motorcycle.
It might be big for a motorcycle, but it’s only barely big enough for her. The combustion was involuntary. She held it together mostly by force of will as she headed down the steps, around the bend, and used the springs to leap it over the waist-high turnstile, blaring the horn like a siren the whole time.
Oddly enough, people were really good about trying to get out of her way. Most of them succeeded.
She took the first train she found, crashed through the doors, and switched into the train. After that, it was just a matter of getting as close to me as possible.
“How did you navigate? It’s a train. It’s not like you can go exploring.”
But there was a map on the wall of every car, a power grid, and lots of conductive rails. Blue-green lightning sizzled all along the tracks for a moment while she got her bearings, then around the cars to get everything moving. She always knows where I am, so she pulled into the nearest station and parked, all the while encouraging people to get the hell off her train.
The train jolted again and she apologized. Nutcases from the rear finally forced their way through the forward doors of their car, so she decoupled it. We could finish the trip with four cars.
“Works for me. Want me to work on the bike?”
She definitely did, since it was her only good way out of the subway.
“I’m sure there’s a place where the trains run aboveground. It’s just a matter of finding it. Although we still have to get you from the tracks to the vehicle… Yeah, this is probably simplest.”
I set a spell to working on the drive system, giving it what I could in the way of durability. I figured keeping it unmelted was the key point. If she could get it to the street, we were good. Melted tires, dented rims, burning seat, glowing exhaust pipes, exploded headlights—so what? All we wanted was for it to keep moving until it crashed into another vehicle.
We pulled into the station and screamed to a halt. Bronze switched from train to motorcycle. Lightning crawled from all around the car, like an electrical explosion in reverse, burrowing into the bike. It revved far higher than I felt was good for it, belched flames from the exhausts, and rocketed out through the ruined doors.
She did sound the horn, which I thought was irrelevant, but it was a nice gesture.
Once we finished various gyrations designed to throw off any pursuit, observation, or suspicions, I settled into my crackerbox apartment and had a rethink. Clearly, I needed a more subtle approach.
Let’s be honest. I’m not great at subtle. It’s not my usual modus operandi. My idea of a subtle warning to uppity nobles is to drop an iron spear into the vestibule with the word “No” written in glowing letters on the shaft.
Say what you want about my subtlety, but give me credit for effectiveness.
Still, I did learn things. My original intent was to find out why Alden went down there. Now I know he’s been working on a bunch of underground dwellers. Unfortunately, I’m not sure about all the things he’s done to them. Somehow, I don’t think I can simply ask them.
So I fired up the mirror and took a look at the mess. I left a lot of wounded and burning people behind on the original platform. Now that they’d had an hour or two in which to settle down and take stock, what were they doing?
Not much. A few were back on guard. The rest were either asleep or dead.
I sent scrying sensors down lots of tunnels, then, exploring at high speed. No roving bands of homeless. No armies of quasi-zombies. Not a lot of bodies, either—at least, not out in the open in the tunnels. There was a fair amount of police presence in the used portions of the underground, but the unwashed hordes recovered their dead and disappeared into the tunnels. No corpse, no murder, no problem?
On the other hand, I found a lot of unused former subway platforms. There used to be whole other networks. Parts of the current subway system used pieces of the older systems, but of the enormous amount of unused real estate down there, much of it was—officially—unoccupied.
I didn’t like it. Alden wasn’t doing charitable work. He was building an army. Okay, a mob, but a mass of brute-force attackers. Or, no… an army. They way they changed their plans, organized, adapted… It might be a mob now, but after a few encounters with any form of opposition, they would be an army.
Did he have a plan for it? Or was he thinking of just-in-case?
As I watched through my free-floating scrying sensor, I found more of the underground dwellers. A ragged stream of them passed through an entrance on their way to their bedding on the platform. The ones on the platform woke up and headed out together in a tight, coherent group.
It looked an awful lot like a shift change to me.
The number of people headed out was between twenty and thirty. Compared to my estimation of the first platform’s total population, this would be somewhere between a quarter and a fifth. The outgoing shift split into three groups. I tagged two members in the subdivisions with tracking spells to find them later and followed the third with my mirror. My group went aboveground to find places to haunt in those hours between late at night and too damn early in the morning.
They didn’t go anywhere in particular. They found doorways and alleys and spots between trash bins. I didn’t see the point to it.
I checked in on my tracer spells, scrying on the other two. It wasn’t until I zoomed up to get an aerial view, sort of a map-like reconnaissance, that I recognized what was going on.
Each group was staking out a location. One group watched Jason’s place. Another watched Phoebe’s first building, by Madison Park. The third settled in to observe her new building, right across the street from the Hudson River Greenway. The parks gave them lots of places to hide, or blend in. Maybe lurk.
When they arrived at their posts, those formerly on watch left without a word. Since the watchers were likely to be there for hours, I had my scrying sensor follow one of the now-relieved sentries. He didn’t go straight down. Instead, he made his way to a soup kitchen or shelter of some sort. It was do-gooder, social safety net type of thing.
Wow. Sometimes I sound like a bad person. I mean, I am, but sometimes I sound like one.
He presented his ID marker, like a military dogtag. This got him in the building where he could warm up, have a thick chunk of bread and a bowl of even thicker vegetable soup. With this out of the way, he went out again. He found an intersection and asked people at traffic lights for spare change.
I, meanwhile, did a quick look around my rathole apartment. I checked down through the building and all around it. Were there any people behaving strangely? That is, was anyone paying any special attention to my floor, my building, or anything like that? There were a few homeless sorts out and about, but they seemed more concerned with sleeping undisturbed than watching anything. I even went to the trouble of opening small gates to look at them directly. No strangeness to their auras? No. All right, so maybe they’re not spies.
I went back to watching the panhandler I’d picked. He was at it until well after dawn.
Sunday, May 4th, Phoebe’s World
I cleaned up for the morning and went back to scrying on my chosen example as he plied his trade on unmoving motorists. People generally didn’t care, but a few paid a street rental to get him to go away.
He did pretty well, all things considered. With a daily income like that, he wouldn’t be renting an apartment, but food and clothing weren’t out of the question.
He eventually called it quits and headed below again. I noticed he had a working wristwatch. A cheap one, to be sure, but it was interesting. Most people don’t wear them in this world. They have their phones for timepieces. Did he have a phone, as well? I never saw him use one.
Others of his shift presumably did things to keep themselves alive after they were relieved of surveillance duty. Those coming off work shift all trooped down the tunnel, arriving more or less around the same time, trailing in singly or in small clumps. They had a bit of trouble getting home. Their route was, clearly, not an easy one as it involved jimmying a door and squeezing between old pipes. Too much of a ruckus from Bronze’s rail travel, perhaps?
When they all checked in, another group set out to repeat the process. Nobody called anybody. Nobody reported. Was there nothing to report? No news is good news? Or was there something incredibly esoteric going on and I missed it? Some of them were stopped by cops, but they weren’t under investigation. It was barely a suspicion. They answered in a dull monotone, denying knowing anything, and were allowed to go about their business.
Did the police care about the subway incident? Did they care about the number of subterranean vagrants? Did they find any hints of mayhem or destruction unrelated to the subway train? Or was someone telling them not to bother? Was the transit authority investigating and hushing up any body parts? Or did the troglodyte zombies do a good enough job of cleaning up? Surely, there was some sort of investigation. Corpses on a train? A rogue subway train? You don’t ignore these things!
On the plus side, at least I had a better idea what the troglodytes were doing. Not why. Not what they wanted. But I did know something Alden wanted them for. They were spies, almost invisible in the city. Nobody looks at them. Anyone who pays attention to them immediately tries to forget them. It was a brilliant idea and I hated it, partly because it wasn’t my idea and partly because Alden knew entirely too much about Phoebe and Jason.
At least his homeless network didn’t seem to know about Rusty or my hideaway apartment. So there’s that. I started to wonder what werewolves ate and whether such people needed to be washed, first.
With the general order of things sorted out, I made plans for the interrogation. Originally, I intended to go below, find someone, and ask searching questions. Obviously, I got diverted. Now, though, I needed to know what they knew, how they operated, and anything else I could find out.
I really don’t think it’s practical to go back down there to grab one. One small riot after me is one more than I care to have.
Come to think of it, this might be an opportunity to test a few things I’ve been putting off.
Reactor World #7
Because we keep putting the reactors with the most construction to do in the tail-end position, they keep finishing first. We have one last reactor setup to finish and he’ll have the set.
We had a brief discussion about adding an eighth timeline to the mix. I didn’t feel like setting everything up for the pilot program of yet another reactor world, so I made another suggestion. We found a bunch of solar-powered aerial drones so he could search his worlds for more potential reactors. He can find a hydroelectric plant or collect solar panels or whatever. He knows how and has robots. He’s no Diogenes, but he can drive the things by remote control.
Once he gets them going, he can set up more dynamo farms in the same worlds, eliminating the need for my involvement.
“In the meantime,” I went on, “I have an avatar experiment I want to try.”
Oh? Such as?
So I explained again about how I planned to pin down an angel by binding it into a human body. However, rather than leap off the cliff with an untested parachute…
Oh, yes. You want me to hold still—here, anyway—while you try to bind me into a human body. What about cloning a body for me to turn into a permanent residence?
“Let’s start with the binding experiment. Whether it works or not, we have a lot more information on how to make an avatar. After all, isn’t that what an avatar is?”
Not exactly, but I doubt anyone will notice the difference. And you’ll have a chance to refine your angel-containment matrix before you have to try it on one for real.
“Exactly. You up for it?”
I can split myself here and be two. One can watch while the other one tries to wear a body. What body did you have in mind?
“A two-stage thing. First, I get off my lazy butt and actually do the cloning experiments. A couple of me, and a couple of somebody else. I figure we can start the clones in a high-magic field and rig up some rotating osmium rings around the tanks. If you can inhabit the bodies as they grow, fine and dandy. If not, we’ll have material to experiment with before a second try. What do you think? Will it work?”
It might. I like that you’re cloning a normal human in addition to yourself.
“I don’t want to waste the time and start over if something goes screwy.”
Prudent. But you implied there would be other clones of you?
“Yep. The other me-clone will be a control subject to see if it turns into a nightlord-type creature. All the not-me clones will be used as test bodies for angel—or celestial—body-binding experiments.”
Okay. I guess it’s okay. You’re building me spare avatars—actual avatars, really—so I guess I can’t complain.
“You’re so magnanimous.”
So I did some multiple world-shopping. The Reactor worlds had the technology to clone a human body, but it wasn’t advanced enough to be user-friendly. It would require a lot more training for me to operate successfully. Other worlds, however, have more advanced technology. While I might not understand cloning technology as well as I would like, I can find worlds of sufficiently high technical development to warrant a closer look.
It took a while to find everything I needed. Equipment, power converters, nutrient solution, you name it. I had to have it all stockpiled and ready to go. I might not be here for the whole growth process, so I had to make sure the body-growing experiments could carry on with just my altar ego’s supervision.
With the time differential on Reactor World #7, I shouldn’t have worried. But I do worry. Not enough to sit there and watch the whole time, though. I skipped over to Phoebe’s world and hid in my rathole apartment lair. I settled in and did some experimental probing of my old cloaking spells.
I normally keep most of my lab notes in another mental folder. You know, the nuts and bolts of spell research, the charts and graphs of Phoebe’s progress, engineering drawings, those sorts of things. But for anyone interested in a summary, here are the cloning experiment results.
First, in my present state, I can’t be cloned. We tried a number of variations on the process, but every time we tried, the cells… “reproduced abnormally.” They tended to be somewhat carnivorous and didn’t get along well with each other. Sunrise and sunset weren’t the issue. The cells were simply not willing to work with each other to form a larger organism, regardless of the day or night conditions.
What disturbs me is the fact they actively tried to eat each other. Human cells don’t do that. I find this disturbing on a fundamental level.
Best guess? Chaos. You can’t have tiny, simple forms working in harmony to produce large, complex forms if you’re a creature of chaos. Well, unless you’re a demon, which is a whole different order of life-form. Which brings up the question of how I’m not a puddle of self-devouring goo. I think it’s the blood I drink. Either I’m giving my body something to eat instead of itself, or I’m metaphorically consuming living essence of order to remind my body how it’s supposed to behave. Maybe I’m suppressing the chaos by drowning it in more ordered material? Is that why food helps, during the day?
I can make an argument for any of these. The actual answer is probably “sort of,” again. Why can’t I have clear-cut, easy-to-understand answers in regard to the effects, actions, and behavior of chaos?
That’s either sarcasm or irony. I’m not sure which.
Second, cloning normal human beings isn’t hard, but it is tedious. Make a hundred clones, recycle any that develop abnormally, and you’ll get a few perfect ones. Even with the rapid-growth techniques used in advanced cloning tanks, it still takes months to produce a biologically mature organism. I can accelerate the process a bit by providing magical vitality, but if I push it too hard, the developing clone has growth problems. Fragile bones are the most common, but with a bit more vitality, it starts to grow in odd shapes. Different organs develop at different rates and they need to do so in the right order. There’s only so much I can do to speed things along.
Third, I think we’ve got a successful avatar. I didn’t fool with it. I only let it grow normally in the tank. My altar ego inhabited it—or permeated it, or coexisted with it, or whatever energy-state beings do with mortal flesh—from the moment I lowered the umbilical pod into the tank. I built a number of divinity dynamo rings to surround the tank and keep a tuned, high-intensity celestial-energy field all through the area.
