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"As I have said before, Alagadda is not a dream. It is a real place — some might say it is more real than the world we know.
Nor is Alagadda a trap, but be wary. The visitor may himself bring the ropes that, in the city's looping pathways, will ensnare him.
I suggest that you seek the library. That is where you may find the Wandsman, who should assist you. No others are to be trusted. Falsity is rife in a city of masks.
And should you feel the wind shift, hear raven cries, or sense some other great change, do not delay. These may be signs of the Ambassador's approach. Heed them, and flee."
The words of Dr. Narváez's briefing ran through Emma's mind. Had her team brought their own nooses with them to Alagadda?
Emma shook herself back to the present and tried to focus. Why was the old man standing there offering her Josephus' quill? Even though she knew the facts, they felt slippery. Truth itself was pliant here. She tried to relax her shoulders.
The man stared at her, the air in the library shimmering around him. The spines of books, red and yellow, white and black, seemed to lean in, looming over them. Emma shuddered.
"I apologise, but a quill?" said Emma. "For Josephus? That can't be right. Flavius Josephus lived in the first century. He would have written with a stylus."
So was the quill a trick? A trap? Emma swallowed, smelling the musty air.
The man had not moved a millimetre. Even his crooked smile was fixed. With a jolt Emma realised that his face, in this city, must be a mask. Then the air turned furry, she smelled treacle, and the old man clicked back into movement. He turned his long-fingered hands upwards in a despairing gesture.
"Then I have been robbed," he cried, voice dripping with pine sap. "Someone has left me a forgery and I am ill-disposed to tricksters! But you must let me find you another gift, for those who have travelled so far to join our revelry."
The man turned away, breaking her gaze, and Emma realised with a start that she had lost track of her MTF. Since they had entered the city, Eta-11 had been working smoothly. They had held a clean formation and worked steadily towards the library, despite the labyrinthine avenues of Alagadda and the attention of its curious inhabitants. Emma tore her eyes from the wizened figure next to her, now hunched over a hessian sack, and turned to look for the rest of the team.
The movement of her head brought a sharp tang of vinegar to Emma's palate. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Every sensation here was like an image in a still pool; to grasp at this world was to muddle and dispel it.
The MTF should be easy to spot, their standard kit transformed into regal versicolour tunics: chessboards beneath black bauta masks. Her own costume was different — Alagadda had garbed her in white silk, shot with streaks of red. Emma scanned the bustling shelves and found them. Eta-11 had set up a perimeter throughout the library, and were standing in various states of alertness.
The larger figure by the door, looking down at his feet, would be Hennessy. Next to him was probably Dr. Reynard, the chin of her mask raised stiffly in deliberate contrast. The third would be Zhao, calmly facing Emma.
"All clear, Commander?" Zhao's words flashed up on Emma's heads-up display. Despite Alagadda's reshaping of their gear, the communication technology remained functional.
"Fine thanks, Zhao. Just dealing with a slight historical misunderstanding. I've got back-up here if I need it."
She looked across to the nearest shelves, where the slight figure of Charlie remained distracted by books — probably something on alchemy, knowing her background. With her, Mike was doing his best to stay sharp, but a large stretch of his arms suggested he was yawning behind his mask.
"I surmise that you are not interested in the illustrious Josephus," came the fawning voice of the old man, who was still peering into the sack. "Perhaps if you advise me of the nature of your search, I can furnish you with something more fitting?"
When Emma looked back to him, the quill and its case were gone. Equally empty was the balcony above them. So where were Roger and Dee? Swivelling, she saw them emerging from an archway in the ceiling, walking normally on a catwalk canted at 90 degrees to her gravity. One of them — Roger? — clutched the railing, no doubt reeling. Dee signed down all clear.
"I am looking for information about a very particular work of music," Emma began, but the old man was no longer paying her any attention.
He had followed Emma's gaze upwards, and her stomach lurched as the room twisted and warped around him. Suddenly, he was scampering along the ceiling towards Dee. Emma saw her reflexively reaching for her absent resonator.
"Hold, everyone."
Dee registered the order, and paused. The old man's body extruded through the last few feet, like it was squeezed from a tube, until he stopped in front of her. The team were fixed on him, but everything appeared calm for now.
"Commander, do we need to…?" Zhao's words came up in Emma's display.
"Nothing just yet. Dee, let me know what he's saying." On the ceiling, the old man held something out to Dee. A book?
"It's a journal, apparently. John Dee's thoughts on the quadrivium."
"Arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music," chimed in Dr. Reynard.
"Thank you so much," replied Dee, with more than a trace of sarcasm.
The old man bowed, lower and lower.
"He says I should have it as a gift, given my heritage. The fuck does that mean? Does he think that Dee's my actual… wait, how would he even…?"
With an abrupt pop, the man folded in on himself and vanished. Flinching, Dee dropped the journal.
And the world was upended.
The journal falls fell from the library ceiling like the sound of a voice underwater. Around them, space yawns yawned in every direction. By the door, Hennessy, Zhao and Reynard are were already hundreds of feet away and receding fast. The windows retreated, and the now-cavernous space fills with shadow. I lose Emma loses sight of Mike and Charlie. I am losing sight of everything.
The journal lands in my gloved hand, jolting me back to myself.
"Agents, exit the library."
"Do you think this is the 'great change' that Narváez—" Zhao's voice is cut off. The vast library gapes, opening wider and wider.
"Not clear, but let's not take any chances. Let's regroup at the main ballroom. Follow the music."
On my display, I can see more responses, but the voice-to-text isn't picking up words.
"We might lose comms. If we aren't back together in one hour, leave immediately. Get to the ballroom, and take the first unlocked door. Do you copy?"
Nothing.
I spot an archway, fortuitously close. As I run to it, I remember the final admonition Dr. Narváez gave the team before we opened the iron door and came to this place.
"I do not have much to say that has not already been said. If you can remain lucid and vigilant, you should avoid peril. But be watchful in all things. Do not speak of the Masked Lords. Do not seek the silent city. And if you become lost, do not travel downwards. Descent leads to the Ambassador."
Beyond the arch, the stairs spiral in both directions, disappearing into darkness below. Pulling my gaze upwards, I begin to climb.
"This makes no sense," said Charlie, gasping for breath. "Another left turn?"
"Seventeen and counting," Mike replied. "I mean, the fourth one was a really long curve, so maybe that counts as two?"
Charlie bent over, reaching out a hand to lean on the wall, then thinking better of it. "How can you be so upbeat? We're lost!"
"This place is incredible! I mean it's wild — I'm not even sure it's possible to be lost in here. And we're following the music, right? That should lead us back to the ballroom — back to the others."
Charlie slowed her breathing to listen. The distant strains of music, muddy and indistinct, called them forward. Was it getting louder?
"I mean, I know the training. I shouldn't try to make sense of it. But to actually turn left seventeen times in a row and not retrace your steps?" Charlie shrugged. She had tried to mark their path with a torn strip of her tunic, but it had evaporated in her hand with a smell of bergamot. "Are you really enjoying this?"
"Yeah, I kinda am. Ridiculous, right? I thought Emma — the Commander — was crazy for suggesting it. And of course it's dangerous, but this place," Mike spread his arms wide, "this is why I joined the Foundation to begin with. Do weird stuff, save the world, meet cool people."
"Um, thanks?"
"You're cool - you're just new to the MTF life! Doesn't this beat researching coghaz though?"
Charlie smiled beneath her mask and looked up at Mike. "The travel is great, but the co-workers take a bit of getting used to."
"I'm choosing to believe that you're referring to H."
"Believe what you like, Agent Carter. If you can't get lost in this place, maybe it's not possible to be wrong, either!"
Mike laughed, then looked down. "Ah, the floor's starting to feel spongy again," he said, pulling his stockinged legs free, "and, uh, I think the walls might be closing in. Are you good to go?"
As she felt the ground start to absorb her feet, Charlie suppressed a shiver. But this was the MTF life, she guessed. She stood up and nodded, striding ahead. "Five bucks says the next turn is left?"
Ahead of them, the music played on.
There is no escape. What is the point in running?
Zhao forces herself to take another step, and another, but the colonnade extends endlessly. Relentlessly. Hennessy, humming hoarsely to himself, sounds satisfied with the situation; content to contend with uncommon conditions as they arise. Zhao prefers to plan, but planning's pointless when Alagadda is so arbitrary.
Reynard interrupts her reverie. "Lieutenant Zhao, I would advise that the path behind is losing physical integrity. At present this phenomenon is around one hundred metres behind us, but I believe it may be getting closer. As such, we should reach a decision rapidly. Let me know, please, if you would like my input."
They are at a junction. Before them, the colonnade continues out to the vanishing point, although that could be metres or miles away in this place. An opening to the right bends into stairs descending — against their preference — to threatening depths. On the left, the arc of a bridge leaps from their path over a black canal, landing in obscurity.
Zhao? signs Hennessy, looking swiftly behind them. We should probably…
"I guess we try the bridge?" Zhao shrugs, trudging upwards. Vanishing along with the path sounds almost peaceful. At least the bridge gives variety, something to leaven the trek.
Dr. Reynard offers an opposing opinion, which Zhao ignores, continuing to the summit of the span. Hennessy taps Zhao's tunic and she stops, shoulders slumped.
Hennessy's voice arrives on her viewscreen. "Are you okay? Is this place" — a wide gesture — "getting to you? You don't seem like yourself."
How could he understand? He didn't have to help herd an antique MTF through a memetic minefield. He didn't receive the responsibility of rank in the absence of information. Why didn't Emma trust her?
Zhao drifts down the chilly bridge, into mist. It's moist, mostly on her unusual uniform, but perhaps the Alagaddan tunic is attuned to this humidity.
Then, for a moment, the fog clears, and they are in a pleasure garden. Immediately it's warmer, and a heavy scent of wisteria clogs the air. Fountains of viscous black water ooze down channels along the red brick path, which branches in every direction. Partially obscured by pavilions, hiding beyond the fronds of white willows, Zhao glimpses the rippling reflection of a headless statue, and the open mouth of a rocky grotto.
And looming at every turn are titanic topiary, twisted in uncanny curves and contours. No green in this place, so the leaves shimmer blood-red. Her look lingers on one swollen silhouette, and it seems to rush forward, swallowing her vision. Zhao's stomach lurches.
She blinks hard, turning to see H observing her again.
"Uh, this way, I guess," Zhao says, taking the first path away from that awful crimson imminence.
As she leads, she catches a stifled sigh from Reynard. Zhao wishes she had Dee here with her.
You clenched your fists.
"What the hell was Emma thinking," you muttered. "She has no business…"
"Dee," warned Roger, climbing the ramparts in front of you, "we don't know how badly comms are affected. You could be live to everyone's headsets."
"The fuck would I care?" you replied. "The rest of you can pander to her, but someone needs to tell her the truth. She doesn't know what she's doing."
Roger hesitated, looking at the zig-zag parapets rising ahead. "I know that she…" he trailed off. "Look, Emma is only human, but she does want what's best for the unit. For us."
"Does she?" you grunted, pushing past the old man in his harlequin garb. "Come on, we have to get back. This place could fall apart any second."
The walk up here had felt normal, but looking back, the ramparts behind you looked looped and twisted into pretzel-shapes. Your vision swam, adding to your jagged headache. No going back that way.
You turned around, and three ramps up, you saw it. The steady climb ended, entering a bulbous yellow tower. You rushed onward, barely checking whether Roger was keeping up.
Inside the tower, your eyes took a second to adjust. The large room had much dust, and the only windows were high above. A dead end. You aimed a furious kick at some wooden junk on the floor, and heard flapping from somewhere outside.
Roger arrived, late and useless. "Is there any way down?" he asked.
You were about to snap at him, when you heard something moving above you. You made out a wooden scaffold scaling fifty feet of the far wall. Was there something on top of it?
"Hey shithead!" you yelled. "Show yourself!"
Something that was not a voice, that did not make sound, resonated in the darkened tower. In your mind.
[ENTREATY]: [NEGATIVE] [HARM].
A liquid form pooled over the edge of the platform, flickering in the half-light. You scanned the ground and picked up a length of splintered wood, wishing for your goddamn resonator. Still, a couple good swings would smash out whatever this thing had instead for brains.
"Dee," said Roger, half-warningly. You ignored him.
More of the liquid flowed into view, the shape nebulous and fluctuating.
[ENTREATY]: [RECIPIENT] [NEGATIVE] [HARM] [INDIVIDUAL].
Roger hesitated. "We won't hurt you." It was almost a question.
[APPRECIATION]. [QUERY]: [RECIPIENT] [CO-OPERATE] [INDIVIDUAL].
"Yes. We can try to help you. Would you like to come down?"
[QUERY]: [MEANING]. [ASSERTION]: [NEGATIVE] [COMPREHEND].
Roger turned to you, and you imagined his eyebrows cocked beneath his mask. "I don't think it understands 'down' as a direction. Um, will you come towards us?" he tried, looking back to the fluid form. "Closer."
[EXPRESSION INDICATING COMPREHENSION].
The fluid flowed into an amorphous spheroid form. It didn't seem to move, but the tower, you and everything in it appeared to shift upwards, bringing it closer. You felt seasick, and gripped your makeshift club.
"Slower!" you called, and the motion slackened, and you came to rest.
As light reached the being, you saw that its flickering surface was a pattern of colours, shifting between the four shades permitted in Alagadda.
Roger shook his head. He started to speak, thought better of it, and signed to you instead.
This place is meant to have universal translation, speech and visual. If it looks like this, sounds like this, after translation… What is this thing when it's at home?
[QUERY]: [RECIPIENT] [CO-OPERATE] [MASKED LORDS].
The concept of the Masked Lords landed in your mind as clear as a bell. You shot Roger a look, then realised he couldn't see it behind your mask.
"We don't work for the Masked Lords," said Roger, "but if you do…"
[NEGATIVE]! [NEGATIVE]! [NEGATIVE]! [EXPRESSION INDICATING FEAR]!
"That's okay, we can talk about something else. Uh, how can we help?"
[REQUEST]: [OPEN] [DOOR] [STARS].
You sighed in frustration. Fuck this thing, and its requests, and fuck this whole mission! What the fuck was Emma thinking?
I'm climbing, and the stairs go on and on, and there is nothing to do but to climb, and to think.
So I'm climbing, and thinking, and trying to avoid thinking, and thinking anyway.
Will the team be okay? I'm sure they will — they trained damn hard for this, and hopefully they're still together. They can help each other regroup.
Will I be okay? Well, Narváez was fine on both of his visits, and I'm following his instructions. I'm sure I can get out perfectly safely. No reason to think otherwise…
Get out. But is that enough? Even if I make it — even if everyone makes it out, what have we achieved here? A fake quill, which we didn't even obtain. A journal we haven't checked. It could be fake too. A PoI we can't identify. Does that justify the expense of coming here? The risks?
I feel cold. Site-Director Arora never wanted to approve this. I talked him into it. I talked them all into it. And if we don't get anything concrete…
But we had to do something! SCP-012 is missing — we can't just sit around the site and research what we already know. And Pherson is out there, obsessed by Twelve, maybe hunting for it.
God, Pherson. He trained me, made me his assistant on Twelve. How did I not see what was happening to him? He worked on Twelve almost a decade. I thought we were friends. How much was real, and how much was just him using me?
The stairs keep spiraling. Am I spiraling? What direction am I turning? It's not clear. What direction should I turn? Where did I take a wrong turn, to end up here, alone.
To clear my mind, I think about music. Maybe the stairs are like a guitar string wound around its tuning peg, or the scroll at the top of a violin. Like a circle of fifths, progressing ever upwards. Mike tried to teach me about the spiral array model for music theory, but I didn't really get it. I think Paul McCartney once wrote a classical piece called Spiral?
I guess a spiral is a bit like a fugue. Each voice circles back around, but it's not in the same place as where it started. Is that what they mean by "fugue state"? When does free association become disassociation? Maybe it's when you hear the voices circle back around? I think this staircase might be getting to me. Maybe I need a decrescendo.
Music blared as Charlie and Mike emerged from the portico.
"The ballroom," said Mike. "We made it!"
Charlie nodded, panting slightly. It was the same hall in which they had arrived in Alagadda. Above them, yellow light shone through a huge glass dome. The space before them was swimming with dancers, gyrating in pairs and clusters on the checkerboard marble floor. On a central stage, the string orchestra was a buzz of black and yellow costumes. The violins played a chromatic see-saw back and forth on the same semitone. Something about it felt familiar; Charlie thought of sirens.
"What now?" she asked Mike. "Where are the others?"
Mike looked across the writhing bodies for any sign of the rest of the task force.
"I don't see them. I think we need to… I guess we set up a perimeter?"
"With two of us? I thought I was the rookie field agent, not you!"
Mike laughed. "We're all rookies to Alagadda. The team will get here, I'm sure.”
A masked dancer broke from the press and glided sinuously towards them. It extended a limb (an arm?) to Mike, facing him expectantly.
"Uh, ah," said Mike, remembering their briefing, "you are very kind, but I'm afraid I am indisposed at present."
He gave a stiff bow, and the dancer wheeled away jerkily.
"How come you get all the offers to dance, Mike?" asked Charlie.
"That's not true! Everyone got approached when we first arrived. I'm sure I saw H turn down two invitations at once. And your turn will—"
As if on cue, a black-clad masquerader slithered down a pillar and craned its neck at Charlie. She repeated the gracious refusal, giving a curtsey.
“Okay, stop laughing Mike. We obviously can't stay here. What if we—ah!”
Charlie flinched as the masked dancers gave a loud whoop and leapt across the floor. Her heart was racing. Mike reached a lace-frilled glove out to touch her arm, as a second whoop resounded from the marble walls.
“Are you okay?” Mike leaned towards her. If a mask could look concerned…
“I’m fine — sorry, just startled."
The mass of dancers convulsed as the music reached a temporary crescendo. For a few seconds the room became a kaleidoscope of twirling colours, and Charlie had the sensation of brushing against sandpaper. Then everything seemed to settle back into its original pattern of courtly bows and sawblade semitones.
"Um, do you recognize this music?” said Charlie.
“No, but I know what you mean,” Mike replied, “but everything else is pretty distracting. Perhaps it will hit us while we wait. Come on — let's each take one side of the room, so we can cover more entrances. When the others make it, we can roast them for being slower than us."
Around them, the music played on.
Time slows; her road flows down rows of roses, rosy and drowsy, drip-drooping drops of dark dew. Time-rowed, Zhao is borne back ceaselessly into blackness. Easelessly into bleakness. Funereal drear drapes the halls of her thoughts.
Hennessy and Reynard walk her wake, the wake in her mind's eye unseen by their eyes, waking. Taking her silent cues for silence, they sidle through silent queues of yellow yews, red privet, black box.
Within a black box, Zhao's mind-space is claustrophobically large; she feels hemmed in by crushing emptiness. Everything is hollow, shallow, shadow-bound, shadow-drenched, wet memory-embers drizzle-sizzling, steam and vapour glooming remembrance. Zhao aches for her son.
She is almost aware of the arboretum around them. Laurel hedges encircle like a wreath: Alagadda triumphant. A black triumph, a red triumph, sour gold and tastless starch on her tongue. She tries to speak a name, to name a feeling, to feel a tear on her cheek.
And in the centre of the semi-circle, she sees it. An apple, dappled, dangling Damoclean above. A ruby ringed in gold-leaf leaves leaving and returning with breeze-teased zephyr rhythms, rhymes and wind-hymns.
Spying the apple, Zhao looks immediately for the snake, and sees it both (curling down a branch)/(striding towards her through parting trees), its (patterned scales)/(old-fashioned black suit) looking both familiar and out-of-place. A sharp intake of breath from Reynard’s commlink, matched in hissing sibilance from the (serpent)/(person) before them. It (flicks its split tongue)/(doffs its stovepipe hat) in acknowledgement of the interlopers in its guarded garden. It (opens its fanged mouth, venom dripping)/(runs a pensive hand down its beard) and speaks with the voice of (MTF Eta-11 Specialist Zoe Smith)/(Dr Bettina Reynard’s ex-husband)/(a five-year-old boy).
“Can they not see our Lord is dismembered? Tossed to the four corners of this Earth?”
"Say what you fucking mean, you piece of shit," you snarled. "How are we meant to open a door to the stars?"
Roger held up his hands in a calming gesture. What a condescending asshole. You were meant to be getting out of this hellhole, not pandering to every resident perversion of reality.
[QUERY]: [MEANING]. [ASSERTION]: [NEGATIVE] [COMPREHEND] [“SHIT”]. [REQUEST]: [OPEN] [DOOR] [STARS] [HERE]. [ASSERTION:] [INDIVIDUAL] [NEGATIVE] [CAPABILITY].
“If you can't do it, how the hell do you think we will? We’re not some n-dimensional blobs that can just—”
“Wait,” said Roger, “what if that’s exactly it? This… individual… may not be able to interact with three-dimensional matter like we can. Perhaps it wants us to open a literal door.”
The realization that he was right was even more aggravating. Across the room you spied a circular crank-wheel, black metal pitted with rust. You took spiteful satisfaction when it refused to budge, allowing you to lash out. Two sharp kicks and it screeched, the sound echoed by a groaning of metal high above.
Your shoulders burned as you pushed against the crank’s stubborn resistance. Of course you would be stuck doing this. Of course you’d be with Roger, the least physically capable in the whole MTF. Grinding shrieks from the roof clawed at your hearing, as copper roof panels folded slowly back. Your thoughts swung viciously to Emma. This was all her fault.
Finally there was a clang, and the crank thudded to a stop. From the tower's distant ceiling, dark stars shed black light from the xanthous sky. You held up a chafed hand to Roger, hoping your carnival mask reflected your glare.
“There, it’s done. This ball of snot can have its stars. We need to get gone, fast.”
Roger turned from a desk across the room. He was clutching dusty papers and what looked like calipers.
“This must have been an observatory,” he said. “I think these are star charts. We can’t leave yet. Think what we could learn.”
You were about to shout him down, but the fluid being interrupted first.
[APPRECIATION]. [APPRECIATION]. [QUERY]: [RECIPIENT] [DESIRE] [NOT-CLOSER].
“Yes, we would like to get the fuck out of here, thank you very much.”
[ASSERTION]: [DOOR] [CLOSER] [LOCATION] [INDIVIDUAL] [EXPRESSION INDICATING RECENT PAST].
“Where you were?” said Roger cautiously. “On that platform?”
[AFFIRMATIVE]. [REQUEST]: [INDIVIDUAL] [PROPERTY] [BECOME] [RECIPIENT] [PROPERTY]. [ASSERTION]: [PROPERTY] [BECOME] [INDIVIDUAL] [PROPERTY] [EXPRESSION INDICATING PRESENT] [LOCATION].
“Roger, can we just leave already? This blob is impossible to understand and I am ready to smash something.”
“Dee, calm down. I think it wants to give us a gift. Something it found here."
“Dammit, Roger, we're leaving. We’re done! Weren’t you listening to our so-called Commander? She decides to retreat at the first sign of trouble, and now we're wasting time on this shit."
"It could be valuable for the mission.”
Even as Roger spoke, something unfolded out of empty air into his grasp. A three-fold statue glinted golden in the yellow light, and recognition burned like the acid in your throat.
"Valuable? That's useless junk! That’s a Calvary group — a Christian icon! It’s not even from Alagadda! Fuck this!”
You started climbing up the scaffold to look for the exit. Anything to get out of this mess. Suddenly, the entity below blared out a warning.
[EXPRESSION INDICATING FEAR]! [REQUEST]: [INDIVIDUAL] [IMMEDIATE] [NOT-CLOSER]. [REQUEST]: [RECIPIENT] [IMMEDIATE] [NOT-CLOSER]. [IMMEDIATE]! [ASSERTION]: [APPROACHING] [APPROACHING] [UNKNOWN].
You felt a deep rumble below, and the tower began to shake.
where is this staircase going? i mean its not like its going anywhere except in circles but the ache in my quads must mean im going somewhere — water circling a drain — song cycles — a round is a kind of fugue, as i go around and around and sing row row row your boat and frere jacques and three blind mice — this mask is a bit like a blindfold or it hides your eyes at least — perhaps we shouldnt have come here blindly but you have to start somewhere and this is the most somewhere place anyones ever been—
where did pherson go? he left after scp twelve was stolen, after richards stole it, but why — did he think he would get caught — maybe he thought there was no point being at the foundation if twelve wasnt there but that behaviour doesnt sound like he was compromised by twelve it sounds like twelve was part of phersons plan or someones plan at least — im starting to breathe heavily after all these stairs — what sort of plan needs blood music as part of it?
where does twelve go? i dont mean where is it now because only richards knows where he hid it and even richards doesnt know thanks to the amnestics but where does the music lead to — i realise ive been subconsciously counting my steps in 12/8 time — does it have an end or does it just go on forever i could ask the same question about this staircase and take all the blood from all the victims and just never stop but that seems unlikely because even though it sounds like cacophony it doesnt seem like the notes are completely random there is structure to it which suggests a beginning middle and end but what end what purpose—
i know ive been thinking about twelve a lot but thats my job after all its not like ive been compromised by it and just because i think there is probably an end to it doesnt mean that im trying to finish it even though thats what it seems to want if a piece of music can have desires having a passion is usually considered a good thing so no one could object to me being invested in my work bach wrote a passion didnt he maybe two perhaps thats all twelve is after all its on mount golgotha it could be just a passion a passion project a labour of—
wait whats that shadow oh just another masquerader coming the other way on the oh weird its really another way like their gravity is at right angles to mine stepping on the vertical risers from my perspective its all about perspective really why are they giving me that look after all theyre the ones going downwards which youre not meant to do here or wait if they are at ninety degrees then from their perspective i might look like im the one who — oh god im falling
shit can’t ooff tumbling my head! down spiraling down darkness rushing limbs flung i hit floor i hurt everywhere oh god where have i fallen to
i look up and the figure looming over me is—
The music changed, and the dance with it. Masked heads jerked to look over their shoulders. Elbows and joints without names twisted in jagged shapes. It was frenetic. Frantic. Frenzied.
The string ensemble chopped out marcato eighth notes, repeating on the same pitch then moving chromatically. The violins stepped upwards, the cellos and basses downwards. Mike had the same feeling as when the space in the library room had yawned open and separated the team.
He pressed forward through the dancers, heading to the far side of the hall. Mike turned to see whether Charlie was okay. He couldn’t pick her tunic out in the spasming vortex of bodies. He swallowed hard.
As the strings completed an octave they sped up, switching to triplets. The music continued its simultaneous climb and descent. The widening split felt like a crack opening in the marble floor. Like continents tearing apart.
The familiarity taunted Mike. Another octave, faster again. Sixteenth notes now. The music was so alien but something…
A masked shape careened into him. Mike stumbled. Hands grasped; he pushed them away. Another tangle of limbs jostled him, and Mike staggered across the hall, no longer controlling his direction.
He saw a raised arm, halfway across the room. Charlie, in his earpiece, said “Mike!”. It was halfway to a scream. His comms cut out.
Mike heard laughter ringing around him, through the music. His head swam with flashing Alagaddan colours. He fought against the tide of bodies, in vain.
And throughout it all, the music played on.
Now Zhao rouses, allows loudness, vows—
“NO! You are not real! You are not him!” she screams, screech-searing ears like. The garden rent, rended, rendered ruined begins to crumble. Zhao snaps into focus.
She sees Hennessy and Reynard, shaking their heads as if dazed. Zhao looks back, and the (snake)/(man) is retreating. It turns to her and immediately she understands. Its message was forbidden. This is not its garden. It is fleeing the owner’s crushing heel. The (snake)/(man) squirms under a rock and is gone.
Above Zhao, the apple is corroding. Red skin dries and peels back in strips. Below it, the white flesh shrivels. A worm is exposed, long and yellow, but it too withers into a husk. And at the core, black rot.
Across the garden, all around them, the leaves are wilting. Fountains crack and spew dust. Zhao turns to her squadmates.
“We have to go. Now!”
She runs, and they follow. Zhao is desperate. Even as it collapses, the garden is still a maze. She can’t find the bridge out.
Something is behind them. A shadow, drawing itself up like a wave about to break. Zhao hears a rustle, as of feathers.
Distantly Zhao hears Reynard. “Right, right, left — there!” Reynard is pointing to the bridge, fifty yards away in a narrowing tunnel of light.
Zhao sprints.
The tower juddered and shook. Dust rained from the scaffold as you climbed.
“Move your ass, Roger!”
You looked down and saw him say something to the entity, which flickered and vanished. Roger started pulling his way up the wooden ladder behind you. He was so slow, infuriatingly slow. A copper panel crashed down, ten feet from you.
You imagined climbing away, finding the exit, leaving him. What did you owe him? He thought he was so much smarter than you. Always taking Emma’s side; he never worked for the real commander. If he didn’t make it, that was his fault.
You only made it three more feet up before you Dee turned, reaching down. You She couldn't leave a teammate behind.
Roger, exhausted, threw out a hand. YouAgent Dee grabbed it and pulled him upwards.
“I almost thought,” he began.
“Save it,” said Dee. “Don’t waste your breath.”
Roger nodded. “Something’s coming. Up the parapet paths we took. I couldn’t see it, but it seemed…”.
A loud cawing cut him off. They both smelled ozone and lilac, and rushed upwards again.
There was an opening in the side of the tower at the top of the scaffold. Dee looked out: a short lip of stone, then empty air. She swore.
Above them, the copper dome screamed and collapsed in on itself. Dee and Roger ducked through the arch as the crushed metal plummeted onto the scaffold, shattering it. No way back.
Roger looked down. “There’s a glass roof! Over there. If we leap—”
“If we leap, what? We die of lacerations, not the fall?”
“Our new friend down there said they could do something to help us land safely,” Roger offered. “Do you see any other options?”
Cracks were spreading through the stonework of the tower, above and below them. Dee shook her head.
“You’re as crazy as the Commander, you know,” she said.
She took Roger’s arm and jumped.
WHAT DOES IT IMAGINE IT IS DOING? WHAT COULD IT POSSIBLY DESIRE, TO ENTER THIS PLACE?
oh god oh god what is this thing im dead im dead im dead
DOES IT DESIRE DEATH? THAT COULD BE ACCOMMODATED BY ANY NUMBER OF METHODS, WITH GREAT PATIENCE AND INGENUITY.
oh god its bending down towards me bending and bending and twisting and sliding and chittering and so dark and what if its the ambassador oh god the ambassador and i — no i can still think i can still think it cant be the ambassador or i would already be laughing or screaming or—
THE AMBASSADOR IS, I’M AFRAID, ELSEWHERE. ENGAGED IN MATTERS OF STATE. I AM A MERE SENESCHAL, TASKED TO ENSURE THAT THE CITY REMAINS CONVIVIAL AND FREE OF UNDESIRABLE ELEMENTS.
that voice like black tar pouring into my ears im choking I cant see but i can feel it staring at me what is this place how can i leave maybe if the ambassador isn’t here wait did it just read my thoughts
IT BELIEVES THAT WHAT IT IS DOING CONSTITUTES THINKING. HOW DROLL. IF YOU COMPREHEND ANYTHING, INSECT, KNOW THAT I SHALL ENJOY WATCHING YOU DESTROY YOURSELF UTTERLY. YOU SHALL SPLIT YOUR FLESH AND CURDLE YOUR INNER PARTS WITH HONEY AND VINEGAR, FOR YOUR LATER DELECTATION. LET ME OFFER YOU A TASTE.
aaaaaaaaaargh aaaaaagh aaaaaaagh help please help me please no please aaaah stop stop please oh god no no — no its not real its not real remember your training emma you have to focus you have to even if you dont make it out you perhaps the team can you can stall it stall it and maybe they—
TEAM? PITEOUS MISCREANT, HAVE YOU DARED ABUSE OUR HOSPITALITY? YOUR PEOPLE BEG ENTRY, OFFERING SERVICE AND RECEIVING A PLACE OF HONOUR, AND THIS IS HOW OUR CITY’S GENEROSITY IS REQUITED?
what does that mean i dont understand oh god its so dark like being smothered we didnt beg or offer anything we just came to find the score to find the saint—
SPEAK NOT THAT NAME! BLASPHEMY! ANATHEMA! SILENCE, WRETCH!
A bell rang in Emma’s mind.
“Wait,” she said aloud. “I hear you. You aren’t just angry. You’re afraid. Afraid of Saint Alagadda.”
There was a piercing screech, and something huge and wet and leathery drew back from her.
YOU WILL NOT SAY THAT NAME! THE CITY WAS TAKEN. IT IS OURS! but the darkness lessened.
Emma’s thoughts were racing. She knew almost nothing about the Saint, but she had to speak before the moment was lost. “I will do more than say it. If you kill me, if you don’t allow me to leave, right now, my team will know. We will bring Saint Alagadda here and it will—it will reclaim its city. You can do nothing.”
LIAR! YOU CLAIM THE IMPOSSIBLE. IT WAS UNMADE. IT CANNOT BE REFORMED.
Emma heard the note of doubt. In the distance, she could see a faint mote of light.
“But if you are wrong, if your mistake leads to the Saint’s return — the Ambassador will know your failure. You will be judged.”
The great shape in the darkness wavered once more, then spat its parting shot.
GO THEN! TAKE YOUR HERETIC BAND AND DEPART. THE AMBASSADOR RETURNS, AND THEY SHALL LEARN YOUR NAME, EMMA STARK.
Emma tensed, and then light and sound rushed towards her from all sides and she hurtled into—
CRASH! Above Mike the glass roof exploded in a hail of shards as two figures smashed through. The whole room suddenly lurched right as gravity shifted, and Mike saw the figures tumble safely to the ground under the pillars. Were those the same tunics he was wearing?
The hall was chaos. The inexorable separation of the strings had torn a hole in the soundscape, and other noises swarmed in. Mike heard strange cries, radio static, voices (“I know thee well. A serviceable villain”), more laughter and chanting.
He just had to get back through the mass. The dance had turned to panic, masked figures clawing toward any exit. Mike pushed against the current. His comms came back in snatches.
“Look, there’s Zhao and H!”
“Commander, we have almost everyone.”
“Mike’s over there, we just have to—”
“This exit, here! Go!”
A sudden break in the press around him, and Mike saw the team, only thirty yards ahead. He shouted and waved, but the gap closed again and his vision was blocked. A spiny hand clutched his tunic and was torn away.
“Commander, how did you—”
“Not now! Get out!”
“But Mike is—”
“Go, Charlie!”
The music was a torrent pushing him back. Mike set his jaw. A deep shadow fell over the hall. A few more steps. The zing of strings breaking. An eldritch scream flashed like lightning as the dancers scattered. Mike saw a violin player leap from the stage. He turned back towards his MTF. The exit.
The music stopped. Silence hit him like a shockwave. Mike gasped as recognition finally struck. He knew that song. Knew it with a certainty that was impossible for any fact about Alagadda. His eyes went wide.
At the same moment he heard the voice at his ear.
“Pretty little policemen in a row.”
And a bladed violin bow lanced through Mike’s back.