The Archivist (26 page)

“Sorry,” I say, flashing my medallion as I keep moving. “On a mission and I’m already running late. But I say, it depends on whether you chew.” The key to faking a role is to adopt it from head to toe, so thoroughly you almost have to remind yourself that it is just a role.

By late morning, all the walking, along with the lack of sleep and days of travel combine to take a toll, and fatigue weighs heavily on me.

The crowd I am following has led me to the edge of a plaza in the central part of the small city. I stand across an open expanse from the Disciple temple. I take a deep breath—somewhere, inside there, are both Danae and the generator. Renewed hope gives me the surge of energy I need to keep going.

The massive building must have been a small college sports arena at one time. Five-foot high wooden fences have been erected all around the structure. The walls are decorated with primitive paintings of every known type of animal and plant, all lined up in an orderly fashion and being taken through a broad pair of gates that visually lead into the Temple. It is as if someone tried to pictorially recreate Noah’s Ark or something.

The compound is pretty well sealed off by the fence except for the entrance, through which a steady flow of men and women passes. A convenient nearby bench provides a place for me to sit and eat my rolls while I loiter and observe.

A large group of people is screened as they pass through the gate together—a farm commune, from the looks of it—and they form into a line which temporarily extends outside the building. Even with the EV medallion, trying to bluff my way through Disciple security is way down on my long list of options. It falls just above suicide.

It is time to try Angie’s secret back door.

Walking while I munch on an apple casually, I circle around the enormous structure, but I am not looking at the Temple. Rather, I examine the other side of the surrounding streets, looking for a broken down brick fountain in front of a two-story building. With my luck, some Disciple space planner decided to do some reconstruction over the past few years.

I do not see any sort of fountain anywhere, so I’m re-examining that list of options when I happen to notice something about three quarters of the way around. The small building sits well back from the others, and the fountain has been turned into a circular flower garden.

This might have been a firehouse at one time. After ensuring that I am not being observed, I stroll through the gaping opening where large garage doors once stood. Nothing stirs other than large rats, which squeak with surprise while they scramble for the nearest hiding place.

Carefully, I step through a doorway that leads into a back room. Just as Angie described, in the far corner is a small closet with a rusty ladder, leading down into a forty-inch-wide manhole.

When I shake the ladder to make sure it is solid, it does not sway, but I am still nervous. Cautiously, I ease my weight onto the top rung for a moment, and it holds. After stomping on the rung a couple of more times, I am convinced that the ladder is sturdy, and descend into the cold darkness.

About twenty feet down, I reach the bottom and pull a couple of the items I brought with me out of the robe pocket. My small plasma torch lights the candle Angie gave me for Little Crow’s small lamp.

The dim light reveals that I stand in a four-way intersection of utility tunnels, the sides of which are lined with several large conduits, probably packed with electrical copper and fiber cable. Unless someone salvaged it.

Back in the Twenties and Thirties, these utility tunnels, built by robots for robots, spread throughout metropolitan areas like invasive weeds. At first the tunnel network was documented, but soon it became so intricate that only the tunnel creators knew what led where. Humans just wanted to be entertained, and stopped caring where the network went, foreshadowing Intellinet.

In any case, the only tunnel I am interested in is the one leading to the Temple. I crouch down and move forward through the five-foot-tall tunnel, sweeping away a few cobwebs and moving carefully so I do not trip over fallen concrete debris.

It cannot take more than fifteen or twenty minutes to reach the other end of the tunnel, but it feels like hours. There, I find the metal door Angie described, but when I pull on the handle, it refuses to give.

The steel handle is stuck with rust; even when I try to leverage myself underneath it and lift with the strength of my legs, it will not budge. I recall passing several lengths of abandoned pipe midway through the tunnel. I cannot speculate as to what led some cybernetic worker to leave this excess material behind, but I will not complain if some robot broke down decades ago. I select a length that looks about right, and head back to the access door.

This time, when I slip the end of the pipe over the handle and apply torque to it, the handle creaks. I continue applying pressure until the bar begins to bend. Then, just as I am afraid the handle is going to snap off, the mechanism breaks free of the rust, and pops open with a loud clang.

I wait for several minutes, listening intently for any activity on the other side, in case someone decides to check out the disturbance. Once I am confident that no one is coming, I push on the door slowly and it swings open with a loud screech, followed by the sound of falling poles. Great, no sense in waiting at this point.

Angie said when she used this route the room was empty, but the small room I step down into is filled with brooms and mops. Someone has been stacking wet mops against the iron access panel, which explains the unexpected rust. It is like moving through a thick forest to get to the closet door.

When I reach the opening, I press my ear against the door to listen. That is when I realize that I dropped my dagger somewhere in the tunnel while I was hunting for pipe. Damn, I am not going back now. Again I place my ear against the door. When I hear no activity, I ease the door open.

This one opens without complaint, and I step out into one of the basement hallways inside the Temple.

Lit oil lamps in wall sconces about every fifty feet create pools of light in the curved passage to my left, so I blow out my candle. The dark section to my right must be an unused section. According to Angie’s directions, this long, circular hall runs around the bottom perimeter of the large temple. Her instructions direct me to go to the left for a few minutes, until I reach a ramp that will lead up into the central arena.

I head in that direction, and flatten against a shadowed section of wall when two workers emerge from a doorway up ahead and head down the hallway, away from me. They both wear drab gray coveralls. When I get to the opening they emerged from I find a small locker room.

The room is unoccupied. Along one wall hang several rows of various-sized gray coveralls on pegs. Several banks of open cubicle organizers line the other wall. The staff only get twelve-inch cubicle storage spaces without even a door to store their possessions, but I doubt theft is a big problem around here.

It only takes a couple of minutes to change into a pair of the gray coveralls and stash the black robe in one of the open lockers. I will fit in better, and the robe is a bit worse for wear after my trip through the access tunnel anyway. I drape another pair of coveralls over my sword so it is not conspicuous.

After fastening the last buttons, I step back out into the corridor, noting that the coveralls are remarkably similar in color to the dreary concrete walls.

Continuing down the passage, I reach the ramp, which appears to be heavily used, judging by how clear the center of the ramp is compared to the dirty debris at the edges. Just past it is a set of stairs leading up, and it appears less used. That would be my preferred route.

I listen for any traffic in the stairwell, then slowly climb the steps for several circuits, pausing at an opening onto the main level. A slow but steady flow of people walks by in the corridor. A few look at my gray clothing with dismissive glances and continue. All they see is gray; I might as well be part of the concrete for all they care.

Another few circuits, and the stairwell opens onto the next level, which is the top of the main seating area. I step out to examine the interior of the Temple, and look over a small sports arena that has been converted into a worship space.

An impressive array of oil lamps around the whole arena provides a surprising amount of light; it is supplemented with a collection of polished metal mirrors around the ceiling that reflect sunlight through openings in the roof.

The top row looks down on thirty rows of seats, which slope down to the floor level, also packed with seats. The central arena space has been divided in half by a massive wooden wall that rises to the roof and closes off the back half. The surface is decorated from top to bottom with enormous motifs of various jungles, forests, mountains and seas, as well as a wide variety of animals.

The artwork is certainly no Sistine Chapel—more like high school quality, at best. The artists were clearly going for quantity over quality. If the Archives was collecting art instead of tech, this would be an excellent ‘after’ example of how far we have fallen.

The arena is still mostly empty but filling quickly as scattered small groups of people gather throughout the stands. About six rows down, a small cluster of five people sits chatting. My exhaustion is catching up with me, so I could really use a few minutes of rest. Plus it might not hurt to take a moment to gather a little intelligence. I slip innocuously into a seat a couple of rows behind them, just close enough to hear the three women and two men.

“Did you hear about Carlina?” A rather pudgy woman at one end of the group, with long, stringy brown hair turns to face the others. “She placed second in the pie-baking category, but only after Erica’s entry was disqualified because a rat got through the netting and ate on Erica’s pie. Well, this morning I saw Carly collecting some boxes from the alleyway behind her house, and I swear I saw a long skinny tail in one of them!”

“No!” A younger woman in the middle with a horse-like face makes an animated gesture and laughs. “Carlina? I wouldn’t trust that cow as far as I can throw her.”

“What’s wrong with you?” a young man at the other end leans forward as he chastises the group. “You know it’s wrong to speak ill of our brethren, especially during the Harvest Festival. If you want to point out sin, start with that whore of an Archivist. Their evil desecration of Mother Earth brought judgment on the world and cast humanity into darkness, so the sooner we purify the world of their corruption, the sooner we bring back Eden.”

The young, horse-faced woman turns toward the young man eagerly and speaks up. “This is the first time I’ve come to town to witness a holy offering. When do they bring it out?”

The other, older man replies, “Not until the dedication ceremony starts. That’s when we want the attention of the Earth Mother, so they’ll bring the Archivist out then. The first cries of the sacrifice are the most powerful and heartfelt, and that will most please the Goddess.”

“I hope it doesn’t pass out too soon,” the younger man adds. “Last time, the offering had a heart attack after a few minutes. This is our first female offering and I’m worried it might not last long enough.”

I feel like someone has kicked me in the gut as I look down onto the floor of the arena, and the reality of what will soon occur clobbers me.

At the far back of the stage is what appears to be an engine lift, encased in wood panels and decorated with flowing displays of flowers. Chains hang down, fastened to an eight-foot-long, two-inch-thick wooden pole with a pointed tip on the far end. This apparatus faces what looks like a long, low pommel horse.

Both sides of the pommel horse have leather straps, to be attached to the offering’s legs and arms. The height of the pole has been adjusted so it dangles even with the top of the pommel horse. A man in gray coveralls like my own is slathering the pole with grease.

The wave of nausea I feel mixes with utter contempt for these people in front of me who refer to Danae as ‘it’. Then again, it is not their loved one who is about to have a greased stake shoved up her butt.

At least now I know that nothing has happened yet. But it will, soon. I have gathered more than enough information, so I return to the landing, then continue up the stairs to the next upper level. Based on Angie’s description, these are rooms that were once private club suites but have now been converted into storage rooms, including prisoner storage.

Angie is certain that I will find Danae somewhere up here. When she was sneaking around the Temple as a teenager, Angie saw Damien being held in one of those rooms.

As I continue up the stairs, I expect to find guards, or at least some sort of locked barrier. But the way is open. Apparently it has not occurred to the Disciples that someone might actually invade their inner sanctum. Which does not surprise me; these guys do not lack in confidence. I am probably the first intruder foolish enough to willingly enter the Disciple arena of Death. Or desperate enough.

At the top of the last flight of steps, I find a sword leaning against the wall, next to a small sack of food and a nearly empty jug. The guard must have gone to take a piss. I have no idea how long he has been gone, but luckily, it is a large jug.

For a moment I consider ambushing the guard when he returns, but the longer I remain undetected, the better. So I step out into the poorly lit hallway that runs through this upper level and guess which way to go.

Angie thought the holding cells were above the back stage, so I turn to the left and stealthily move forward from shadow to shadow. The distant sound of dripping water echoing in the passage makes me think of some sort of zombie apocalypse. The irony is, the actual apocalypse came from a different sort of undead.

The only moving things I encounter are huge rats scurrying to get out of my way. About seventy-five feet down the hall, the passage is blocked by a metal gate with a loose chain and a dangling padlock, used to secure the passage beyond. Someone carelessly left it unsecured—probably the same negligent guard—and I ease through.