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A.R.Yngve DARC AGES Book Three _________________________ |
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Chapter 5
A series of thick steel doors rolled shut behind Darc as he entered a large airlock. He walked into what seemed the anteroom of Old Dakchaor: a clean, cool, undecorated machine hall populated by noisy automatons. Dozens of machines -- most of them moving on rails -- were loading, irradiating and processing the incoming goods. Two larger robots seized Darc's arms; panic hit him like a punch in the gut. "Let go of me!" he protested. "I demand to see your superiors!" The two sturdy work robots resolutely dragged him toward a wide vat of boiling liquid... and past it. Darc saw where they were heading: into a corridor resembling -- a 20th-century car wash. The robot official explained: "Please take off your clothes and leave any fragile objects here. Then stand on the conveyor belt, keep your eyes and mouth closed, and let the conveyor belt take you through the tunnel. You will be disinfected and scanned there, before you may meet the city lord." Arguing was pointless. On shaky legs, Darc undressed and entered the tunnel. He shut his eyes hard, and played the Popeye tune in his head. He felt acrid fluids spraying him, and numerous warm, soft brushes scrub him; he heard the clicking and humming of scanning machines; he felt the uncomfortable radiation of heat-lamps; and finally, minutes later, cold air streamed against his dry, shivering body. Darc opened one eye, and saw that the conveyor belt had stopped at the other end of the tunnel. A robot servant clanked up to him -- a sleek, polished model, decorated with intricate patterns -- and offered him a set of fresh new clothes. He put them on. Sandals, baggy white pants, a long white shirt, and a white fez -- all a perfect fit. Darc found a tall mirror, and cursed. The black dye had been washed off, and his hair and eyebrows matched his dress perfectly in whiteness. "When in Rome..." Darc said to his mirror image, and let the servant guide him to another entrance. What Darc found beyond the next airlock seemed disturbingly unreal. He recalled the palace described in Coleridge's poem Kublai Khan: an architectural fever dream, devoid of dirt -- or any inhabitants to justify its existence. From here, inside the Old City, the surrounding great wall oppressed the senses; it was at least twice as high as the wall surrounding Bor Damon's city-state. Though the sunlight reached across, the wall was far too high to show anything of the spectacular view of the bay outside. What Darc could discern of the Old City made a disappointing impression. The gleaming spires were there all right, towering up into the blue sky -- but now he saw clearly that they shot straight up from the ground. Darc realized, at last: these were not castle spires or minarets -- but airshafts and smokestacks. The city's ground floor consisted of a circular gravel plaza, roughly the size of a soccer field -- completely lifeless. This was the roof of a bunker, not a town. There had to be an underground level, where the city-dwellers were hiding... then why did they make themselves the trouble to invite him? The answer came within a short while. At the foot of a nearby metal tower, a hatch opened. In the glass-covered opening a pale human shape appeared, waving him closer. Darc paced up to the window and gazed through it. The figure behind the window was reclining in an armchair construction, a meter or so above Darc's head. Darc beheld -- the living dead. The figure was deathly pale, its skin so thin that blue veins and capillairies showed; it resembled an overgrown fetus. The yellow hair on its head grew extremely long, but it ran stripy and lackluster, draping the bony shoulders of the figure like a shroud. The human creature squinted at the daylight and shielded its eyes, though that did not help much -- the pupils of its eyes showed through the paper-thin eyelids. It attempted a smile -- and showed its perfect white teeth in a horrid death-grin, the likes of a dried-up mummy. Zombie! was the only word Darc's horrified mind could think of. He tried to speak, but words failed him. If this was a remnant of the past world he thought gone and forgotten, then he had seen enough. In his imagination, he could picture thousands of similar mole-men below his feet, still waiting for the right time to rise and reclaim the planet -- an alien species, armed with the weapons of past wars. Darc turned and ran to the exit, too frightened to be embarrassed by his own primitive reaction. He could not hear the figure's faint pleas, nor see its despair. The city lord of Dakchaor gave up and let the visitor escape. The mysterious white-haired stranger had awakened a great deal of excitement and hope; Darc might have been holding the vital news that would release the city lord. But he doubted it. It had always been too late for his kind: the ones who had stayed underground for much too long. All the city lord could do was to offer a small gesture of support. In a century or two, he thought, only this glorious city will remain -- still maintained and cleaned by the machines – and its last citizen will finally disappear. Two robots literally pushed Darc out of the Old City and out past the exchange plaza, before the astonished eyes of merchants and beggars. He was so dazed by his experience, he hardly saw the crates being dumped at his feet, or heard the robot official's terse farewell. "Leave Dakchaor before sunset. Goodbye." Darc noticed the strange looks he was receiving from the crowd -- and his gaze fell on the crates that reached up to his chin. It could be -- it had to be -- "Yes!" he laughed out loud. He began looking for someone to help him carry the heavy load back to the boat. Before he could reach out and ask, a band of roving thieves came to his aid. They surrounded him in a second, flashing their sticks and knives. "What's in there, paleface?" a filthy, large man asked anxiously. "You'll share it with us, huh?" Darc's eyes darted around but found no help in sight; he had left his weapons in the Old City. With several knives pointed at him, he began to bend open the smallest crate -- and stopped. "I am a messenger from the Old City," he told the largest bandit in a dark tone. "If you so much as touch me, those lasers will burn you to ashes where you stand!" Darc pointed up at the wall of the Old City to emphasize his threat. The bluff worked instantly -- several bandits turned and fled like scared rats. Only two wide-eyed thieves hesitated long enough to hear him out. "Do you know the secret of the Old City? I was inside and talked to the city lord! Do you know what he gave me?" The thieves trembled where they stood. "I'll show you," he said ominously and stepped back to open the tallest crate. That was enough for the two thugs -- they disappeared behind a corner, before the militia could spot them. Curious onlookers began to move in on Darc and his crates -- then, just in time, Lucijja and Faluti found him and pushed their way through the crowd to him. They were accompanied by several other, armed crew-women. "What happened?" Faluti asked, staring at his white clothes. "Not here, not now," he replied. "Quick! Get a transport, and take this load to the boat." They rented a passing horse-cart, then changed to a wagon with electric power, and reached the harbor in less than thirty minutes. A growing stream of people was now following their party, and the militia was alerted to the recent events -- loading the crates into the catamaran seemed to take forever, though the harbor personnel was paid off to work at double speed. Darc easily persuaded the captain to sail out immediately. Rifles ready, the crew cast off and moved out to sea. It was already late afternoon, and scores of boats were heading home to their ports of call. As the harbor area emptied out, only a desolate few clusters of clay-and-brick houses stood out in the open space. Where thousands of tents had been erected only hours before, the wind played with abandoned heaps of debris. Had the experience in the Old City been real or imagined? Darc asked himself. The crates were real enough. And the items, when examined, fitted the specifications quite well. His radio transmitter could be completed after all; he allowed himself to relax. During the trip back home, the women aboard wanted to know Darc what he had seen in the forbidden city. All he could answer, each time he was asked, was: "Zombie." Soon, the crew ceased asking. They understood enough. |
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