Part 7
“And now,” said Autolycus, rising, Standing up from empty glass, “I do believe I have to go. My family will want me soon. But it was such a pleasure meeting you I’d love to do it again.” “Oh, yes!” said Isaac, nodding briskly, “I come to this place Quite a lot, So if you’re sticking round, then maybe We will see each other soon.” “I would like that,” Autolycus said, Who paid his tab, and smiled at Isaac, And clapped him upon the arm. “Until then, friend, farewell, good night!” And with a turn, And with a swivel He was gone right out the door, Out into the blackened night Where snow was falling down. “Frost at midnight,” Autolycus said as he went walking ‘long, Tramping lightly in the snow, And, curiously, did not leave A single footprint in the powder; Light he was upon the white. He turned down one street, then another, then into a long, thin Passageway That led deep underneath An ancient awning overhead, The entrance to the sewers churning Underneath the city’s depths. A great pool awaited him, and at its edge he briefly stood. Then he snapped his fingers loudly, And the pool flashed brilliant red, A hellish red A neon red And then the waters started parting, Pulling from the center outward, Opening a massive hole, One that led far down and downward Into an eternal black. Autolycus walked on outward, Autolycus walked on air, Autolycus’ two boots were glinting red Upon their soles. He angled his toes downward To the endless depths below, And started to descend Just gently, Slowly, gently floating downward, And when he was far enough The waters closed above his head, Rendering the sewers dark and empty, As before. But as Autolycus fell, The air about him grew to brightness, Grew and shone with neon red, And a sound of massive swelling Slowly rose upon the breeze. As Autolycus fell, around him, His black clothes were altering. Where there had been pants, and sweater, They now merged, and bloomed, and flowed, Until they became black robes: A habit, like a monk would wear, Black as coal, with tattered sleeves, And ragged, flowing train That whipped and blew Upon the warming breeze. Also on his head was glowing: Two soft delta lines, reversed, Were painted round his temples, And they shone a neon red, A hellish red A cold, cruel red. Finally a portal opened, Slickly soft, yet metal hard. Autolycus fell down through this, and emerged into a vast Enormous space Lit black and red, With walls that breathed, like living flesh, Yet were composed of metal grandeur, Shining with red strips along, An empty space, a tall, high dome, Rose overhead, with central beam Of bright red light, and soaring black, So that when one looked up it seemed One gazed into the Eye of God. Around him floated chambers, spaces, Like organelles within a cell. Some were crawling on the edges Or the sidings of the dome. Some were growing from the bottom, Blossoming like flow’ring plants, Some were even floating freely, Defying Earth’s gravity. It was towards one of these floaters That Autolycus was now moving, And its membrane, smoky gray With glints of neon red upon it Parted round him as he came And as he entered, there the lighting Turned into a gentle white. This light exposed many a station, Modules, platforms, tables, spaces, Where many a thing was gathered, Instruments and data screens That floated, neon red displays That hovered in the air. And at one end four folk gathered, Two women and two tall men. They were all dressed like Autolycus, Shrouded in their robes of black. One man turned as he approached, And said: “Ah, Father Arius! It’s good to see that you’re on time.” “I am indeed!” said Arius, Who left his fake name far behind. “And I appreciate you fellows Likewise being punctual. Brother Crick, and Brother Dirac, Sister Faraday as well, And Sister Belladonna! A good evening to you all.” “Pity Murasaki could not join us,” Belladonna said. “Cleaning up that hard light project At the Byzantium canto,” Faraday replied in turn. “She wanted to make sure that it was all finished Ere she parted. So, alas, we three will have to do, And Dirac here, as volunteer.” “It’s awfully late now, Arius,” Said Dirac, stifling a yawn. “I am off my sleep module, So let’s cut to the chase.” Arius said, “Indeed, friends, I must ask your pardon For the lateness of the hour. I was detained all ways today, And flitted here and there, Throughout the city, and the world, Going to and fro, But now, let’s have our meeting, Since the day is waning fast. Shall we have some caffeination? Intravenous, or perhaps Some of us would prefer some tea. Or coffee, as it were. Who requires help to solider through And get this done?” “I need nothing,” Dirac said, “Except what is within my robes.” His long and flowing sleeve at once Inside itself began to sprout Long sharp black needles that poked in Inside his skin, which soon caused him To draw sharp breath in, as the stimulants Flowed through his veins. “Are you done?” asked Arius, Sounding perfectly polite. “Yes,” said Dirac, “Let’s get on with it.” “Ah, very good,” said Arius, And waved his hands about. All at once a flow of screens Emerged out of the empty air, and glimmered there, A neon red And showing, showing, blood and cells, DNA and RNA Spinal posture, curving hips, So many a great display Of what the human body was, and what it might have been. “The cleansing of the city’s highborn, Of their DNA, Continues onward, with renewed success,” Said Arius, and smiled. “These nobles and their grand elite Were using crude technology That some past Technocrats permitted To preserve their secrecy. But this led to so much trouble, Madness, bloodletting, disease, Extra limbs and extra eyes, All sorts of nasty stuff. It was fascinating to observe; Much data was collected. They almost became a control group For their own ambitious work. It was of scientific interest To consider how they changed Over the last two centuries Since they began to purge their genes. But they starting growing sicker, And deformed, And so they begged For miracles to heal themselves, And miracles I have provided, In exchange for a few scraps, Just a few discarded mutants To be studied on at length.” “Yes,” said Faraday, and shifted Forward to observe a screen. “Yes, the cleaning has been useful, There’s no trace of much disease, And you’ve managed to eliminate The last deformities. These new folk, all these younger people They are really, truly ‘pure,’ Whatever that means,” Faraday said, her dark skin lit vaguely red. “It’s interesting, isn’t it?” Said Arius, in careful thought, “Who determines what a clean soul is? What makes a person ‘pure’? All the Seraphim, as well as All four Elementals would be Thought ‘impure’ by all these folk, Yet I count them finer by far Than all this mongrel incest lot. Purity, it seems, cannot Be measured by the blood or genes. Or so I say--” “And I agree,” said Belladonna, Gazing up, Staring at the screen with her green eyes, Such lovely witching green. Not like the sapphire blue eyes Of her Daughter Who she had not seen in quite some time. “Purity is something that does not touch on the dirt and skin. It is...” “Metaphysical,” said Arius, With silver eyes Agleam. “We all know that by now, yes? Do we not?” And there were nods among the Technocrats. “I am really quite impressed,” Said Brother Dirac, who gazed along Upon the screens, and said: “We called you to this city to consult us, Only fifty years ago, And you have spent so little time here, Yet with your help we’ve advanced So much, much further than we had before And now the problem’s gone.” “I am the best,” said Arius. He smiled smugly, snapped his fingers. “Is that not the clearest thing to you by now?” “You are indeed,” said Faraday, Who quirked her lips in barest ways. “It’s been so kind of you to focus Some small time upon our troubles, In between your constant searching For those lost children of yours.” “Lost children...” said Arius, His silver eyes suddenly bright. “Just a moment,” he said quickly, Stepping forward, beckoning, And he called a floating panel Made of red light to his hands. Quickly did his fingers flash To swing through images and files Video and audio Tracking backwards to the pub: ‘The Broken Heart’ It had been called. “Arius, what are you doing?” Belladonna asked at length. “Is this some part of the project?” “No, no,” Arius explained, “This regards that other matter Of which Sister Faraday Just spoke,” he said, and peered upon The billion cameras, small, discreet And sensors that were Scattered round the city wild, Looking upon everything. For there was nothing here That the Technocracy Did Not See. He focused in on the past hour, then the hour before that. And very soon-- “Hmm, hmm,” he hummed, And as he watched He saw Isaac go out the door and walk Along the snowy street. Effortlessly flicking, tapping, Wielding his hands easily Arius went shifting between camera shots Of Isaac there As he kept walking, making turns From one cold alley to the next-- Until at last, he came upon An empty courtyard, and he came To a large wooden door, around which Windows gleamed with pleasant light. “Hey, I’m back!” cried Isaac then, Which Arius could fully hear As all the sound was broadcast Into their own inner ears. “Welcome home,” a soft voice said, And Belladonna drew a breath. Within the open door they saw her: Pale with white hair, silver eyes, Saw her smile, saw her grin. “Saera...” whispered Belladonna Clutching at a secret pain. “Were you drinking all night, man?” A voice cried next, and then they saw A long and wiry young man swing Into the frame, With tan, brown skin And chin-length hair That flickered in a fiery red. “Ardo!” Crick said then, surprised, And leaned in so to better see. Isaac laughed, and Ardo laughed, And Arius smiled wide.
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