But the Beautiful One does not know this, not really. She does not know because she has slept these four hundred years, and dreamed another’s dream. Her mind is composed of glass and thread, of circuitry and nucleoreceptive fluids. And dreams, of course, and histories: all the memories of those who came before her.
“Mother.” The words are so garbled that only the Beautiful One can understand them. “Mother, Mother. Please.”
“Nefertity,” whispers the finely dressed man in his crimson greatcoat. It is the sort of clothing, of archaic yet fine, even baroque, styling, that only a member of the Orsinate might wear. His hand caresses her cold glass cheek, presses gently the spot upon her lower lip, the indentation that might have been left by too rough a kiss. “Nefertity, speak to me.”
Ah, she thinks. From within the coils of metal thread a flame begins to lick and preen. Ah.
Her eyelids snap open. From the watching rasas comes a sound like a hiss or a sigh, and their pallid hands move slowly.
“Nefertity,” breathes the waiting man.
“Ah,” she says again; and as her eyes begin to move the room flares gold with light.
“Ah,” the Angels cry out, and creep closer as she starts to speak.
“Greetings, sisters and brothers,” she breathes. It is a woman’s voice, calm and somewhat breathless. “This is the United Provinces Recorded History project, copyright 2109, Registered Nemosyne Unit number 45: NFRTI, the National Feminist Recorded Technical Index, or Nefertity.”
The voice pauses. There is a soft whir, the whicker of datafiles spinning. Then, “The intent of our project is to provide a record of oral histories of those who might otherwise be forgotten. The Albhuz Femicides, the Bibliochlasm of 2097 and the subsequent holocaust have taught us the terrible necessity of projects such as these. Together, the Nemosyne Units of the UPRH will ensure that these voices will not have been silenced forever. As the Recorded Feminist Index of the American Vatican, I represent only one portion of the vast database available through the UPRH. Your local infonet will tell you how to link with others.”
The whirring stops for a moment. The waiting rasas remain silent, oblivious to her words. It has been two hundred years since the bibliochlasm has even been admitted as part of the Ascendants’ heritage; more years than that since the last nemosyne was believed lost in the infernos of the Third Shining.
“Nefertity,” the man in the crimson greatcoat whispers, “speak to me.”
The nemosyne clicks; then,
“ ‘I am the Million,’ ” she begins. Even the man is heard to sigh.
The Beautiful One Is Here.
Chapter 1
A BREACH AMONG ANGELS
THE SCREEN SHOWED A luminous formation like the cutaway view of a chambered nautilus. At various points blinking lights signaled the presence of the Wardens, the computerized guardians of the Orsinate’s special entries to the gravators that shuttled them from one level of the Holy City to the next. In the very center of the nautilus a small rectangle glowed brilliant purple—the palace where the Orsinate Ascendancy and their staff lived and ordered the systemized destruction of the world outside the domes.
It was not really a nautilus, of course. Hobi knew that, as did his father, the Architect Imperator, whose long, thin fingers traced and coded new entries onto the screen. It was a bird’s-eye view of Araboth; but Hobi was doubtful as to whether any birds remained Outside to see those radiant tiers beneath the domes. In fact, the discovery that there were still birds Outside would have disturbed Hobi greatly. Hobi was only seventeen. His education at the chromium hands of a Seventeenth Generation Tutorial Scholiast had taught him (as everyone in Araboth learned sooner or later) that the world Outside was a treacherous place, even a hellish one. Anything that survived Out There—birds, insects, viruses—posed a threat to the survival of humanity, humanity of course being best represented by those who lived beneath the Quincunx Domes, in particular the Orsinate and their cabinet. At any rate Hobi’s education—heavily tilted toward the sort of effete skills (literature, calligraphy, computer programming) that young aristocrats had received for centuries, perhaps millennia—had fallen off in the last year, since his mother’s murder. Standing now behind his father, staring at the nautilus on the bright screen, was the first time Hobi had looked at a monitor in months.
“Structural damage to Studio Ninety-seven, Grid Fourteen, Powers Level,” a voice murmured. It was a mechanical voice, the voice of the Architects who had designed and now maintained the city, under his father’s supervision of course.
“Very good,” Sajur Panggang said softly. It was four o’clock, false morning under the Quincunx Domes. A porcelain cup of kehveh steamed on the desk at his elbow. It smelled of chocolate and bitter almonds and made the boy realize how tired he was. Sajur reached for the cup and sipped it absently. “Next level,” he said.
Hobi yawned. He had been passing his father’s workchambers on his way to the dining room and stuck his head in to say good morning. His father’s disheveled kimono and the spent tabs of amphaze on the desk indicated that he had been up all night, again.
“Something wrong?” Hobi asked. He inhaled the kehveh’s rich smell and wondered if he should have the servers bring him breakfast in here.
“Mmm? No, no.” Sajur bent forward until his nose touched the screen, squinting as a red trail spun out from Powers Level down to Principalities. The Architects were centuries old. While they constantly reassessed and repaired themselves, the image quality on the monitors had been deteriorating for decades now. “Just performing a criterion, couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh.” Hobi leaned against the wall and rubbed the scant stubble on his chin. Sajur had not slept well since his wife’s murder, many months ago. The boy rubbed his eyes, stared more closely at the screen. It looked odd: something different about the configuration of the outer walls, maybe. “Is there a problem?”
Sajur Panggang shook his head, then listened intently as the Architects recited the inventory for Principalities Level. “Now Archangels,” he commanded when the voice fell silent.
“Nothing has changed on Archangels,” said the Architects after a few minutes. Hobi thought of returning to bed.
“Good,” murmured Sajur Panggang. “Now Angels. Level One.”
The light-trail that had marked the descent to the other levels darkened to violet. The nautilus on the screen disappeared, was replaced by a seemingly random series of reticulated squares and rectangles and triangles, crosshatched with a dizzying array of blinking lights. Hobi straightened, peered over his father’s shoulders. Shivering he tugged his robe tighter about his narrow chest. He had never seen an enhanced image of Angels before. As far as he knew even his father had no business down there, and certainly the Architects had never renovated it. Only escaped rasas were rumored to live in the Undercity—if, of course, one considered them to be living at all. Hobi did not. Just thinking about them now was enough to make him wish he had stayed in bed. He rubbed his arms and leaned closer to his father, staring at the display. Even the model of the Undercity was disturbing: the frenetic lines and squares that had nothing of the exquisite order of the rest of Araboth; the black shapeless areas that showed where the ruins of the original city had decayed and even the Architects had failed to restructure them. Hobi had heard stories about people going to the Undercity. Nasrani Orsina, the exiled margravin who was a good friend of his father’s, was rumored to have a mistress down there. It was just the sort of dreadful thing you’d expect of an Orsina.