"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."
"Ooo — look who thinks she's learned to manipulate people." He snapped me a backward parody of a salute. "Get going yourself, Ramos. Do something non-sentient to Jelca before he does it to you."
He turned and lumbered away. I watched for a moment, then saluted his back. Call it another birthday present.
In the Stairwell
I had eighty storeys of ramps ahead of me. No matter how pressed for time I might be, running was out of the question; I settled for a light jog and wondered how long I'd be able to keep it up.
Far above, the tower ramps clattered with the clack of glass footfalls. Tobit's speech had inspired the ancestors so much, they hadn't stopped after breaking down the door — they were still charging ahead, howling to spill French blood at Agincourt or whatever they thought they were doing. I didn't try to keep up with them; not only were they stronger and faster than my mere flesh, they were less worried about running out of wind. The stairwell burned with the same radiation as the main tower rooms. Even as they raced along the ramps, the ancestors were recharging, keeping themselves powered.
There was another reason I didn't try to catch up with the ancestors: I needed time to decide how to handle Jelca. First, grab his stunner — that was obvious. And I had one strong advantage over him: I could see clearly through the tinted visor of Tobit's helmet. Jelca, on the other hand, would be half-blind with the radiation suit covering his eyes… like looking through glittery cotton cloth. In a straight fistfight, the odds were stacked in my favor.
As long as he didn't shoot me first. One sonic blast, and I'd be unconscious for six hours… or until Jelca killed me, whichever came first.
How could I avoid getting shot? Stealth if possible. If I could sneak up and take him down fast, I had nothing to worry about; but if he saw me first…
"Idiot," I said aloud. "Why didn't you pick up your own stunner?" Yet the prospect of using the same weapon as Jelca filled me with revulsion. I knew I was being irresponsible — considering the stakes, I should have been ruthlessly willing to shoot Jelca in the back if that's what it took. But some subconscious inhibition had stopped me from thinking about my own stunner until now — and I had no time left to go back for the gun.
Was there anything else I could use as a weapon? I took a mental inventory of my belt pouches, now tucked under the radiation shirt and pants. What was I carrying? Things for taking soil samples, a small disk camera, my first aid kit…
…which contained the scalpel…
I laughed out loud. There in the stairwell, I leaned against the wall and laughed. Unable to stop giggling, I untucked my lame shirt tail, opened a pouch, and pulled out the knife.