The Rosetta Codex (13 page)

. . . Channels that might once have carried water or other fluids along the floors of a series of interconnected dome-shaped rooms, the oxidized metal ceiling/walls etched with intricate depictions of lush plants and vague bipedal forms hidden behind the dense foliage . . .

. . . A vast network of severed pipe and cable that emerged
from walls and ceilings of a building that appeared to have had one side completely cut away so that its interior structure could be exhibited . . .

. . . Two women who carefully brushed and scraped away at a wall of dirt and rock in a room still partially buried; four shiny metal tubes lay in a basket behind them . . .

. . . A long wide hall with tables on one side and sinks on the other and pipes entering and exiting the walls, and racks of strangely shaped cutting instruments and gripping tools and implements whose functions were indecipherable, yet all organized and waiting to be put to use if their owners were ever to return . . .

 

“One more thing to show you,” Karimah said to him. “For now, anyway.”

By now Cale was truly captivated in some deep and terrible and wonderful way. He followed her along another high and wide passage, then through a doorway of dangling vines of delicately carved wood, and into an enormous vault lit by more angel lamps. He stopped, stunned and immobilized.

Hundreds or thousands of sheets of thin, coppery metal hung from wooden dowels suspended from the ceiling on nearly invisible wires, the sheets carved through and stenciled with markings like the tracks of terratorns and blades of grass. They angled in different directions, yet hung above their heads in a curving pattern so that Cale imagined that if he started here at the door and moved about the room, following them, reading them over the hours or days it would take, he would in the end achieve some special insight . . . or revelation.

“This is the writing you saw, isn't it?” Karimah said.

Cale nodded. More than she knew, he thought. He remained there a long time, staring at the metal sheets, the pages of alien text he hoped he might someday understand.

Cale lay beside Karimah on the mat, his damp skin touching hers. Breathing hard, he lifted his hand and laid it gently across her belly, his fingers lightly brushing dark coarse hair. He felt her own fingers find his and weakly curl around them.

Light was a dim yellow glow here in their private cell some forty or fifty feet below street level, the glow produced by a phosphor globe suspended from the shored-up ceiling above them. Two metal sheets of the alien glyphs hung from copper wires and cast patterned shadows across the polished stone walls. Dark fabric draped across the doorway, muting the brighter lights of the adjacent passage as well as the sounds of those working in the chambers and passages
around and below them. The air was warm and heavy despite the Underneath's ventilation systems. They usually slept back at the main Resurrectionist encampment, and occasionally in a cubicle two floors above the skin parlor, but Karimah insisted their lovemaking take place down here in the Underneath, surrounded by alien artifacts, lying amid the ruins of the Jaaprana's world. Sometimes the two of them stayed down here for days, working, sleeping, eating food brought down by others from above.

A bell chimed just beyond the curtain, and a woman spoke, voice hesitant. “Karimah? Cale?”

“Yes?” Karimah replied.

“Cicero's waiting. He said you were going to help him at the markets today.”

She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at Cale. “Remember?”

Cale nodded, closing his eyes and wishing he didn't have to move.

“Tell Cicero we'll be up in a few minutes.”

 

They climbed ladders and stairs, the air becoming steadily cooler as they came up into the building. Outside, it was winter, something it was easy to forget in the Underneath with its pockets of stifling air. They found Cicero sitting alone in the main basement, drinking coffee and reading a pocket folio.

Cicero was a small, wiry, and kindly old man with sparse silver hair that seemed to float about his head. He had been with the Resurrectionists for years, but he never did any of the excavation or exploration, never descended into the
Underneath. He helped out with whatever needed to be done above ground, and sometimes cooked huge meals for everyone back at the main encampment at the outer edge of Morningstar, serving large quantities of his foul-tasting home-distilled alcohol that made people quickly drunk and produced cramped bellies and painful hangovers. Cale didn't know much about the man, but he'd heard that Cicero had once lived on The Island; it seemed an unlikely story.

Cicero shook his head at them. “Put on some warmer clothes. There's snow out there.”

“Snow?” Karimah said. “When did that happen?”

Cicero shook his head. “You people lose touch down there. It's been snowing for three days.”

 

The snow was knee-deep, and there was a hushed feel to the city around them. This was Cale's second winter in Morningstar, but last year there had been no snow. The thinnest layer of gray cloud hung above them, and the midday sun burned a brighter gray disk through the clouds, bringing a glitter to the snow. A few vehicles skidded along the road, but most people were on foot. Businesses were open, and there were nearly as many people out as usual, but the pace was slower, as if everyone was taking advantage of the snow to relax and ease up on their frantic lives.

Cicero led the way along paths that had been dug out of the snow by others. The route to the markets brought them near The Island, within a hundred feet of its protective moat; its buildings appeared to grow and dwarf everything surrounding it, and the metal and glass gleamed more brightly than seemed possible from the clouded sun. Cale
had been this close to The Island a few times before, but had never entered; it was more difficult to gain access to The Island than it was to cross the Divide. He felt the same way as he always did in its presence—that this place was mysterious and magnificent, intimidating and enticing . . . and malign.

They were still several blocks from the first market, walking along Gibson Channel toward a footbridge spanning the waterway, when a voice called out to them.

“Young Cale!”

Cale stopped abruptly, struck with fear at the familiar voice. He forced himself to turn and look across the road. Blackburn sat with another man at an outdoor café table, sheltered from the snow by an opaque canopy and surrounded by lush ferns and flowering plants. His shaved head was large and shiny in the light reflecting from dozens of faceted glass hangings. Cale couldn't see much of the other man, who was obscured by plants and shadows.

“Join us,” Blackburn said with a sweep of his arm. “Bring your companions and join us.” His smile did not provide Cale any comfort.

Cale looked hesitantly at Cicero and Karimah. Cicero nodded and said, “We should accept. The other man at the table is a Sarakheen.” He turned to Cale. “You know who the Sarakheen are?”

“Not really. I've heard the name a few times, but I've never understood who they were.”

“I don't like it,” Karimah said with a frown.

“I don't either,” Cicero said. “But it's impossible to know how the Sarakheen would react if we decline. And your friend Blackburn,” he added, glancing at Cale, “he definitely doesn't take rejection well.”

“You
know
him?” Cale asked.

“I know who he is. I saw him several times when I lived on The Island, but I never actually met him. It surprises me, I have to say, that
you
know him.”

“The last time I saw him,” Cale said, “we didn't part as friends.”

Cicero nodded once. “
That
doesn't surprise me. We really should accept, anyway. We won't stay, we won't accept an offer of drink or food. We'll make polite conversation, then we can leave.”

Cale looked at Karimah, who shrugged, then turned back to face Blackburn. “All right,” he said.

They crossed the road, and when they entered the café the temperature immediately rose, became mild and pleasant as if they had passed through an invisible barrier. Seated upright and expressionless next to Blackburn, with a large smoke-colored drink before him, was the Sarakheen. He wore a black bodysuit, and his right hand and fingers were perfectly formed and articulated like a natural hand of flesh and blood, yet were constructed of metal and plasteel and glass.

Cale made the initial introductions, since he knew everyone except the Sarakheen. There was no real introduction of the Sarakheen; his name was a private matter, Blackburn explained. Although the Sarakheen didn't say a word, nor did his expression change, he shook each of their hands with his own, artificial hand.

Blackburn stood and put his hand on Cale's shoulder, as if they were good friends. “It's been a long time, young Cale.” Cale just nodded without directly looking at him, and Blackburn turned to the Sarakheen. “This is the young
man I was telling you about last year,” he said. “The one I met on the other side of the Divide.”

The Sarakheen leaned forward and studied Cale, his eyes widening slightly; yet his face remained unreadable, which Cale found intensely disturbing.

“Sit down,” Blackburn said. “Have a drink with us.”

Cale could not pull his gaze from the Sarakheen, could not manage to decline Blackburn's offer. Blackburn said something about getting extra chairs, Karimah responded, but their voices had become faint and distant. The Sarakheen's stare had shifted Cale into some other time or place.

“Cale?” Blackburn gripped his shoulder once more. “You'll join us.”

Cicero took the opportunity to say, “We don't want to interrupt anything, and we need to go anyway.”

“Underneath?” the Sarakheen said. His voice was surprisingly soothing, but that one word created an instant stillness and tension.

“No,” Cicero answered calmly. “The markets.”

At that, the Sarakheen smiled. Yet even the smile disturbed Cale, for it seemed not quite human; or if human then not quite normal. The Sarakheen turned to Cale, leaned forward, and shook his hand again, staring intently at him. Cale thought the Sarakheen was going to say something, but if he did intend to, he changed his mind and sat back without a word.

“Where can I get in touch with you?” Blackburn said.

“You can't,” Cale replied, still frightened without quite knowing why. He turned from the table and walked quickly out of the café without waiting to see if the others followed.

 

Karimah and Cicero caught up to him on the other side of the Gibson Channel footbridge. Karimah took hold of Cale's arm and forced him to slow his pace. He stopped and leaned against a kiosk wall, breath ragged.

“What are they?” he asked.

“They're human beings,” Cicero began, “though in some ways they seem hardly human at all. They live in an artificial world called Sarakh, which they built for themselves. Each of them has one mek arm, one mek leg, and one mek eye, and every one of them has their reproductive organs surgically removed immediately upon producing their second child.” He shook his head. “I'm sure there are other things they do or don't do that I'm not aware of, but those are the most well-known. They come here to Conrad's World with some regularity,” Cicero went on, “but they rarely leave The Island. I became acquainted with several when I lived there. I don't think anyone ever really gets to
know
any of them.”

“They're freaks,” Karimah said. “I've only seen one once before, but I tell you there's something very
in
human about them.” She visibly shuddered. “I didn't like her at all, the one I saw. Didn't like this one, either. And they sure as hell don't like us.”

“What?” Cale asked. “They don't like normal humans?”

Karimah uttered a harsh laugh. “What the hell are normal humans?” she said. Then she slowly shook her head. “If anything, they have disdain for humans as a whole. No, I mean Resurrectionists. They don't like
us.
”

“Why not?”

“We don't know,” Cicero replied. “They've made indirect efforts over the years to shut us down. I always had the impression that they were behind Island Security's periodic harassment—Island Security would haul in one or more of us at a time with a charge of some political crime or other, and then ship them over the Divide. We were in different locations before, and even had our excavations sabotaged a few times, by people who had claimed to join us. We're a lot more careful about who we bring in, now.” He looked at Cale. “You're the first new person in three years.”

“And you think they don't know where you are now? You must have been there for years, as extensive as the Underneath is.”

“They probably know,” Karimah said. “Either they've decided we're not worth the trouble, or . . . or they're waiting for something.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for us to find something,” Cicero said. “Maybe something
they've
been searching for.”

“I'll tell you what I think about those bastards,” Karimah said. “I think they're searching for something very specific, and I think they've got their own excavations here on The Island, and they haven't found it yet. They think it's under The Island, but just in case it isn't, just in case it's where
we're
exploring . . . I think they're letting us go, and they figure if we do find whatever it is, they'll get the word, and come and take it from us.” She gave Cale a wicked grin. “If that day ever comes, they're going to find that taking it will be a lot more difficult than they anticipate.”