Dusk has fallen over The City as the evening begins to draw close. A quick check on the SUV's on board map confirms that yes, I am indeed in the neighborhood where Hobo Beard's laboratory is located. While it was tempting to complete my journey by driving straight to the lab, I instead stop the SUV at a parking spot by the side of the road and disembark, electing to hoof it on foot.
Hernandez had assured me that I had several hours worth of grace before ORPO would respond to my escape, but I did not want to take any chances. Thanks to the red thread scattered throughout The City, the smart money is on Fate knowing that I am wandering about free. Just because ORPO is unresponsive doesn't mean that Fate can't send someone else to handle me. Parking a block away from the lab would hopefully create some confusion as to what my ultimate destination is. Not that there's anything else of interest in this area other than the lab, but this paper thin deception should at the very least buy me some additional time.
And when you're a hunted man, every little bit extra counts.
Settling into a comfortable stride, I begin setting off in the direction of the lab, my breath drawing wisps of mist as I exhale. The climate is getting colder and the days shorter. By my reckoning, the height of winter should have passed a few weeks ago. But there seems to be no end to it. I had originally thought that the climate was what passed for normal in this dimension, but a public service announcement playing on the radio put paid to that assumption. Unseasonable cold and heavy snowfall had inflicted a massacre on the homeless that reside on the night streets of The City.
Never realized things had gotten quite so serious during the time I spent in the Sarcophagus. The camera feeds playing at the control station had never really displayed people suffering from the cold. But then again, I suppose that was not the focus of what The Voice was investigating. The poorer areas where the homeless congregate would also be the places least likely to be hooked up to The City's native CCTV network. Sucks to be them I suppose. No point feeling bad about something I can't really do anything about. I'll need to make a mental note to ask The Voice to prepare me some thicker clothes if the weather keeps sucking ass like this though. Could I ask for a coat with that fancy space heater lining? Wouldn't hurt to ask.
Ducking past a thin net of red threads cast around the junction, I rapidly close in on my destination. The wreckage of the lab still looks exactly the same as the last time I was here, the front half of the building having completely caved in with burn marks heavily scarring the structure. The rear half of the building still stands, but whether there is anything worthwhile left inside is a separate matter. The site had been fenced off by yellow tape put down by SOPO and to my expectation, the tape has already been broken, leaving a length of it fluttering in the winter wind.
Looking around, I notice several faded footprints among the dust and grit. Someone, make that multiple someones, had been here before. Frowning at this discovery, I begin picking my way through the wreckage with my fingers crossed. Passing the wrecked reception area and the hole The Voice had dropped me down into at the climax of my battle with Chance, I make it to the undamaged interior of the building.
And find absolutely nothing.
Judging from the scuff marks on the floor and the dust outlines left behind, our mystery movers had made off with several large, heavy objects. The lab's equipment most likely. Thinking back, most of Hobo Beard's lab stuff at Ascension Tower would have been originally delivered here. But all that crap would have been moved by Naiberg's SOPO lackeys. It would not explain the broken yellow tape I found at the site's entrance. Someone else had been here after SOPO left the scene. Someone not working with Hobo Beard.
Not that this conclusion brings me any form of comfort. Naiberg had decided to go his own way, independent of Fate. Both his 'goddess' and The Voice were lining up to take a dump straight on his head at the end of the day. Fate might have sent a more reliable minion to retrieve something that Naiberg had left behind here. Was I already too late to unearth any real secrets? An involuntary shudder grips me as I recall Naiberg's end. The Voice had told me that Chance referred to Gallant as an enemy of the world before his sister. And Siobahn, unwilling to side against her brother, eventually turned against Chance.
Enemy of the world. Chance may have been babbling a load of bull to Siobahn, but that descriptor suited Naiberg perfectly. Standing against the two presiding gods of this dimension, Naiberg wanted to become an obscene (well, he was already obscene to begin with) combination Icarus and Prometheus. Wielding divine power and using it to ascend ever upward. Did creating the Perfecta count as sharing the fire of the gods though? I suppose in a liberal sense, it did bring divinity to this world. Really ugly divinity, but beggars can't be choosers.
Gallant may not have been the enemy of the world, but I might very well become Naiberg's successor to that title if I'm not careful. Treading too close to The Voice's secrets is not beneficial to anyone's health. But I can't keep flying with blinkers on in this dimension. I take a breath and steady my nerves. One step at a time. There might be an earth shaking secret hidden here. Or there might be nothing more than dust and debris left behind. No use getting ahead of myself.
My musing is interrupted by stumbling upon a staircase leading towards a large, metal double door. What truly interests me is the clean length of iron chain wrapped around the door's handles, sealing it shut. So this sub level was what the second set of visitors to the site were interested in. And if they had bothered to lock the place up, that meant that they had left something behind. Finally, a break in this investigation. Grabbing the chain and yanking it apart, I push the doors aside and they obligingly part.
What greets me is a small storeroom. The walls look reinforced, explaining why the small quake The Voice triggered had left this place undamaged. And right in the center of the room is a rectangular empty space, probably left behind when the mystery movers made off with whatever they were after. Clicking my tongue in annoyance, I spy a set of drawers situated by the side of the room and move in to take a look.
Pulling the topmost drawer open, I realize that it holds a single, utterly ancient poster. The poster is so old that it looks like it would flake apart if I tried touching it with my hands. Despite this, the art style and printing is all surprisingly modern. Not to mention the subject matter. A group of winged, horned creatures, a family perhaps, cluster below the rising sun. In the distance there is a sparking metropolis rising from the ground, right in the process of construction, scaffolding still fresh on some of the buildings. Underneath the ensemble is a length of cheerfully printed but completely indecipherable runic alphabet.
Damn it. I had forgotten that there was no guarantee that I would actually understand anything that I would uncover. And I can't very well bring this shit back and ask The Voice for a translation. No choice but to keep going I guess. My luck has held out this far.
The next drawer is opened and in it, another one of those ancient-modern posters. This one has far more urgency in it, the runic printed in angry red. I blink when I take in the actual subject matter of the poster. The winged horned creatures are this time dressed as soldiers carrying rifles and swords with tanks and uh, SAMs, I think? Well, missiles, at any rate, paraded in the background. Jet fighters blaze across the blue sky heading to fight some unknown enemy.
Weird. Totally weird. I have no idea what to make out of all this, but one thing is clear, this is the precursor civilization The Voice was talking about. But something doesn't make sense. The Voice said that the precursor civilization was destroyed in a series of natural disasters which subsequently kicked off a genocidal conflict. Barbarians wouldn't be able to use modern printing methods or field fighter jets. This means that the war came before, not after the natural disasters.
This is it. I had my suspicions before, but I had finally managed to catch The Voice in a lie. This is what I had been looking for.
Next drawer. A wood block printing. Old, but substantially newer than the earlier posters. And this time, the text on the painting is not in runic but in regular alphabet. Not that I can understand what its saying either. This one must have been printed once civilization recovered. And unfortunately, it looks like Fate propaganda. A picture of a winged veiled woman stands in the center of the poster, red threads spreading outwards like a halo. Fate's arms cradles what appears to be a dead baby with a tiny halo of its own. Her figure is sandwiched by a pair of words.
SOPFAEDOR. BEOMLAST.
Whatever in the world that means.
Second last drawer, and yes, another poster, a wood block print. This one shows a massive medieval army made out of men, angels and demons, marching into the distance. Towering over the army from the background is a golden skeleton, can't tell of what creature. Fate hovers over the army with her wings, her hands caught in a dramatic gesture dispelling the mist that had been barring the army's path towards the skeleton. And again, that incomprehensible text.
SUPLAND! ABRECAN LEODHATA BREASTGEPANC!
I have no idea what is going on anymore. Rubbing my temples in consternation, I open the final drawer. A painting, and this time, I understand exactly what it represents.
Its a world map. Drawn in the classical style, a tiny guardian is painted on each of the map's four corners. A veiled, winged woman. Fate. An armored knight. Cuckman probably. A demon in noble's dress, Enma. And a faceless, nondescript man. That makes the servant. Fate and her harem protecting the world. But what throws me completely off is the map itself.
When The Voice summoned me, it had shown me a map of the world as part of the briefing. From that point I had simply assumed that this world had a similar geography to my own. Similar geography, similar world, just with the added demons and angels. It was a reasonable assumption to make. A clever misdirection. But now I know the trick it had used. The Voice had never lied to me on this point.
It had simply told a partial truth.
