“Down,” he murmurs.
“What is this place?” I ask. “What do I do?”
He lies still, curled up like a child on the floor of the elevator. His fingers are twitching and he breathes, but otherwise he doesn’t move.
“Great,” I say to myself.
Peter’s wallet is bulging from an inside pocket. Reaching into his jacket, I fish it out. Flipping it open, I see without much surprise that he’s got a CIA badge and identification. His name is listed as Peter Alexeyevich, eyes brown, hair brown. The rest of the wallet is empty except for a wad of hundred dollar bills and a black credit card made of metal.
“Who are you?” I ask the unresponsive man.
My knees sag as the elevator slows. Shoving the wallet back into his pocket, I pat Peter’s body down for weapons.
A long dagger is sheathed over his thigh.
I tug the blade free. Holding the antique knife, I brace myself against the wall as the elevator doors part to reveal a foreboding, unlit concrete hallway.
Breathing hard, I push the silver elevator buttons with my free hand. Nothing happens. Hesitant, I step out into the maintenance corridor, knife up. Behind me, Peter lies still under the fluorescent glare of the elevator light.
“Hello?” I call. “Is anybody here?”
I take a step forward, flinching as overhead lights snap on automatically, one at a time down the long hallway. The bulbs hum over spotless concrete.
“Peter,” I whisper. “We’re here. Where’s your friend?”
He doesn’t respond.
A metal door clangs open up ahead. The shadow of a person hits the wall. I call to it, heavy knife wavering in my hands.
“Hey!”
No response, save for a strange clicking sound.
A head pokes around the doorway and turns toward me—a head with no face. I clench my teeth as the rest of a human-shaped machine steps into the hallway, thin limbed and gangly. Made of smooth white plastic, the thing stands perfectly still in the middle of the hall, silent and expressionless.
“Hello?” I call to it. “Batuo?”
The machine animates, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me. It seems to be more appliance than man, with no hair or skin. The only details that stand out are contours where the sculpted casing fits together, lines that curl over the sterile whiteness of its arms, chest, and thighs. That, and an empty face like a hockey mask.
“Shit,” I mutter, stepping back. The quiet sigh of its footsteps grows louder as the robot advances, and I can feel each impact vibrating the concrete floor. “Shit, shit, shit.”
I back all the way to the elevator mouth. The machine keeps coming forward, pincered hands widening. One slow step at a time.
Cornered, I bare my teeth and raise the knife.
“Fuck off, robot,” I say, my voice as unsteady as my hands.
As it nears, I lunge with the knife. The curved blade glances off a hard plastic shell. It doesn’t even leave a mark. Backing all the way into the elevator, I jab again and again—each time the knife point slips away. Finally, the machine shoves me aside and stands over Peter’s curled body.
Then it kneels beside him.
From the gentle curve of its spine and the way it balances without effort, I know this can’t be a human creation. The thing seems like it came from the future. With the little touches of smooth plastic, it seems almost alien.
Gently, it slides both hands under Peter’s body. The pincers that were so menacing a moment ago now resemble ice cream scoopers. And I notice it has padded forearms, built to cradle.
Standing up, the robot effortlessly lifts Peter’s limp body.
“Hey!” I shout at it. “What are you doing with him?”
Still holding the knife, I follow the robot, helpless, as it walks past me into the hallway. I watch from a safe distance as it opens the metal door and moves through. As the door swings closed, I take a deep breath and catch it with my foot.
I peek inside, utterly unprepared for what I see.
The narrow concrete hallway opens into a soaring medieval cathedral—stone ceilings disappearing into dusty heights, every inch veined with carved ridges and whorls that spread in fractal contours. The intricate patterns curve into arches that meet in rows of slender pillars rising from an expanse of dark, polished marble. The footprint of this room matches the skyscraper, forming a sort of negative image of the world above.
The robot seems small now, clacking over the broad, shining stone floor with Peter in its arms. A dozen dim shadows play at the feet of the machine, flickering in the light of a thousand candles and lamps that are lit in sconces and chandeliers and candelabras. The vague shapes of palm-size drones flit back and forth overhead, darting and hovering like hummingbirds—tending to the wicks of every candle.
What looks like a mausoleum wall dominates the far side of the room, its flat, smooth surface broken into a grid by hundreds of crypts. About a story up, an ornately carved wooden railing circles the entire room, clinging to the gracefully curving walls.
And now I notice the limbs. Rows of them hang on stainless steel hooks mounted below the wooden railing, some with skin and others just metallic bone. Several alcoves branch off from the central space. In one of them, I see a low, blocky table that reminds me of the aboveground tombs sometimes found in the alcoves of European cathedrals.
I startle as a voice echoes from somewhere high.
“You are a woman,” says the voice. It’s a man, a slight Indian accent with an amused tinge to his voice. The words float in the cavernous room. I can’t tell where the voice is coming from or even if it’s coming from a speaker or a person.
“That’s right,” I call, tensing my shoulders and scanning the room for movement. “What gave it away?”
“I mean, you are a human woman,” states the voice. “Certainly the first to visit this sanctuary. How interesting.”
“Where are you?”
“Well, I don’t know if I should answer that. You have a rather big knife.”
I shrug my shoulders, the blade flashing in candlelight.
“It’s not mine,” I say, examining the dim walls. I can’t seem to find the voice. It comes from everywhere and nowhere.
“Oh, I know. Peter is very fond of his khanjali. Has been for a long time. But even so, I am thinking it would be better to have my helper dispose of you. You are trespassing and, sorry to say, your presence is technically sacrilege.”
The robot lays Peter’s body on top of the blocklike table. Moving closer, I see it’s made of molded white plastic, an operating table enclosed by a large ring of metal at either end. Together, the two rings create an empty cylinder that encloses the table and Peter. On the far side of the table, a pedestal extends upward.
Standing up straight, the robot turns to face me and pauses.
“Peter said you two were friends,” I say.
“We were.”
The robot turns and takes a step toward me.
Backing up, I pull the cedalion from my pocket and lift it to my eye. I scan the room again, listening to the robot’s feet clacking on polished marble.