Filaria - Brent Hayward [94]
And if alive? Then its tortured shape had been created by a lunatic, in a lunatic’s lab, and should be put to death immediately.
“What is it?” she whispered.
Movements glimmered like dull sparks. Detail was occluded. She squinted. Were there fans turning in there? Yes, those were fans. Hundreds of them.
“This is where you lived,” the voice said. “The structure you lived in. This was taken over the past few weeks.”
Indignant, Deidre said, “That is not my home. I never lived there.”
“Allow me to clarify, Deidre. Where you lived is being looked at here from, well, from high above. You’ve never seen your home from this perspective. Of course, we can’t see the inside from this angle. But wait . . .”
As if suddenly diving, the vantage of the gram moved, swooping closer to the cancerous buboes and then rapidly among their folds, coming in to corkscrew dizzyingly between the stacks, past tense guy wires and massive sails that turned slowly in unfelt winds, past those fans she had spotted earlier and then through them too, between the blades, past other devices that looked like buildings and others that looked like creatures watching her, past growths that might have been heaped feces and past numerous other protrusions whose functions she could not imagine nor ever wished to, all whipping up at her so swiftly she had to grip the bench with both hands to fight the vertigo —
The rushing sensation slowed; the gram steadied; she could breathe again. Her grip relaxed.
“There,” the voice said.
“What am I looking at?” These words leaked out of her, like a breath. She wanted to vomit. The unpleasant belief that truths were being presented to her, and that larger, even more profound truths were coming, had settled in.
“See the dark spot?” the voice asked, whispering in her ear from nowhere. “See it? Right beneath you, as it were?”
She did see it. There it was: dark spot against a field of static grey. Malignant. An ugly hole. She tried to peer beyond the darkness but vapour puffed out from the aperture, a quick burst that made her recoil, as if she might possibly catch a whiff of the gas or feel the exhalation on her skin. “I see it.”
“That’s where you came from. That’s the hole we impelled the creatures to make. We brought you up, out of there.”
Like a black fleck on a portion of exposed skull, she thought. And through it? Inside that monstrosity? What? Her home? Her parents? Everything she had known and loved?
“Are you all right, Deidre? Your vitals show stress.”
“No kidding.” She leaned forward now, hoping again to change the perspective, to see the beauty in there that had once been her life. “You’re telling me this is my world? This thing is my world?”
“You’re looking at the uppermost part of where you lived. The part that lies aboveground. Where you live — or where you lived, rather — is under the surface.”
“Under?”
“Yes. Precisely. You lived inside an ancient artifact, under the crust of this planet. We learned of its existence recently. You see, we thought the entire planet was dead.”
“This is the surface? Here? What’s up here?”
“Not much. Mostly desert. And those flying creatures, of course. There are a few tribes of people trying to get by, but their genes are ruined, useless for our purposes. I don’t even think you’d recognize them as your own species if you saw them. I dare say they could not tie their shoes, if they ever wore any, let alone make the staggering connections you’ve made since you’ve been here.”
“Others? Like me?”
“Trust me, Deidre, they are nothing like you. You are perfect.”
“Don’t patronize me.” She looked up at that bleary red orb, flickering through the leaves. The air seemed to make a slight humming sound. “Do you call that a sun?”
“It’s a star. But yes, it is our sun.”
“And my ancestors, the people who built my world, they came from up here? They all lived up here, once, on the surface?”
“Yes, Deidre . . . For the record, I’m not patronizing you. I truly am astounded by your