The rain fell on the blackened buildings in sheets of strain. The streets were flooded by vehicles moving at a snail's pace. Matrices of code illuminated the facades of the silicon towers, turning on and off in logical sequences that suggested they were performing an algorithm in a microprocessor the size of a city. Spotlights roamed the eternal clouds, searching for a break in their impervious ceiling.
Xanther sat in a corner tavern, electrified blue by an oversized entrance sign, downing a tankard of sweetened ale while contemplating the evidence of a crime. The ruffles in his beard showed evidence of a man who was contemplative by nature, always running his hands through it while he ruminated about his cases. His new case was particularly unusual. Someone was seducing men and killing them during intercourse, severing their penises and using them as marks to indicate it was their crime. Of all the morbid ways in which criminals symbolized their actions, this was one of the more disturbing he'd examined.
The ale spilled down his throat in a hymn of sedation. Alcohol, that magical drug, had been his closest companion for a long time, soothing his senses in a sweet surrender. Tragedies became incidentals with the power of this potion. No matter how many dead bodies, mutilated torsos, and traumatized victims he had to confront, the entropy created by the ale made them commonplace enough that he could barely get by doing the job he did. This case in particular caused him to drown two tankards instead of the usual one.
He walked down a lonely street near the park, the leaves on the trees reflecting in multi-colored splendor the streetlamps in their steel cocoons. The ground was awash with rain that had collected in the cobbles with nowhere to go, plated over by a sheen of pillared light. He sat on a bench under a leaking maple, not caring that it was wet. A text from his brother revealed a new lead on the case: a reclusive prostitute from the Afremov District. So it would be a long night, searching in the rain through a perilous neighborhood, with no one at his side to watch his back, least of all the brother he needed, who was living the dream of a secure researcher back at the station.
To be on your own is courageous and foolish, lacking in safety what honor defends.
...Horns blare, violins sigh, the melody of a piano treads over the grass. He's back in Musique, where the sound never ends, and the notes are always sustained. The houses are made of instruments, each a part of a domestic symphony that functions as a recording of all that is happening. When a door opens, a bugle calls; when the wind blows, windows play flutes; when the toilet flushes, a tuba blasts. All these sounds originated from their crafty inventors, who built these houses out of ivory, brass, and soul. The detective remembers, as every fine detective must, all the details of the place he grew up in, with all its streaming chords that lined the walls, and the percussion of his mother's movement in the kitchen.
He'd been out on the grass with his brother playing a game of chess, each of the pieces sounding a note in scales of octaves with each move. His brother's friends had invited them to go play whistle ball. They'd needed an extra player, so he'd been invited as well. But his brother wouldn't let him, saying he was too slow, that he'd give the other team an unfair advantage even with more players. So, he'd left him there on the grass, alone with his thoughts, reinforcing the idea that he was a monster and didn't belong…
The Afremov District was an old, crippled, part of the city that made up for its decrepitude in overly flashy facades. Billboards, rotating lights, showgirls in the windows all captured the eye instead of the brownstone buildings. Through all the bustling black-market activities, Xanther caught a glimpse of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She was dressed in a flowery mess that looked outlandish in a place like this. The lead had brought him here, but her lead would take him away. An urge made him follow her, something he'd been trained not to do as a student of detection.
The woman weaved her way through a maze of buildings that lead to the monument at the center of it all, the city's pride and joy: Orbital Tower, a great grandfather clock that rose over the skyline like an arm of God, stirring the skies above in a swirling motion.
The clock struck 11 in the gray mist of night. Walking along the street toward the tower, he watched something fall out of the woman's purse as she approached the entrance. He picked it up and saw it was a red handkerchief, like the one described in his brother's lead. Curiosity overpowered him. The lovely woman might have been the one he was after anyway. Now he had a better reason for following her. It wasn't every day he got such a convenient invitation. What's more, the intrigue of the tower granted him a greater desire to follow, for he'd never been in it. He often looked at it, wondering if the top had ever seen the land that supported it, or if there even was a top. Legend had it the tower went on forever, higher and higher until it graced the ground of heaven.
Xanther used his badge to get in the building, despite it being closed for the night. When he asked security why they'd let the woman in, they told him it was private, that they couldn't disclose that information without a warrant. They also warned him not to go too far up, for nefarious forces lurked in the churning gears of the clock at the top. Xanther had heard of the cog hawks who patrolled the tower from below the clouds. Apparently, they guarded the inside of the tower at night. He'd thought they were a myth.
Up, up the detective climbed. A variety of tickings imitated the composition of a synthesizer. Skysized synthescraper. Higher and higher, forever higher, his climb seemed eternal. He couldn't tell how long it had been, or how high he'd come. The measure of the clock's ticking laughed at him for not keeping track, for being completely ignorant of its essence despite witnessing its machinery.
The pendulum swung, back and forth, a sad cradle of glass always rocking, back and forth. Gears of many sizes surrounded him, churning in technicolor series like a digital rainfall, cascading in clicks through the circuit of the tower. Above he could see a large transparent window that marked the time, both hands moving faster than he'd imagined. Midnight, the darkest hour, powerful signifier of a new day. The gong sang at the night, 12 ear-crunching explosions that rattled the tower.
He stopped for a break under the pale moonlight, far behind the woman he was following. The chase would have to wait until morning. All those hot dogs and hamburgers had finally slowed him down, at a time when he needed to weigh less the most. When he returned to the city, he'd force himself to shed all this fat, once and for all. He'd finally be able to keep up with the things he wanted most.
Still no sign of any cog hawks. Perhaps they really were a myth. The lifted anxiety cast him into a deep sleep.
As he slept, he dreamt of her, the blonde maiden in red satin. The sounds of the gears churning made the dreams oddly robotic, as if the woman he was seeing was some avatar on a chat server. When the clock struck 5, it startled his subconscious so much that the dream shifted to his brother, someone he was so afraid of being confronted by that it snapped him wide awake
Dawn, the persistent riser. Must go higher, along with it.
From the bottom of my heart, I hate him. He was always better than me, at everything. Everything. It doesn't matter that he was older. I always lost to him, even at the games I was best at. Mother loved him more, though she denied it. My father wished he was his own, that's why he couldn't stand the sight of him being with me. Everyone in the family loved him more, gave him the things I wanted. They thought I was a monster, that he was an angel sent to tame me. A perfect, pompous angel. He had everything: looks, brains, talent, personality. I was a deformed giant, speechless, useless, lazy, and boring. He always had more friends, and they never wanted to play with me. He was more fun to be around, everyone loved him. Everyone except me, I hated him. The worst thing about it is he was humbler than me. He had it all, and then he threw it all away, for no apparent reason other than that he thought he didn't have anything. Ridiculous! I was above him, for a long time. I published a book, wrote music, got better jobs, married first, owned a house first. And all this time, the big brother- half-brother, that is- struggled to keep up with me while he lived out his youth with our mother. My father would still love me if it weren't for him. Things would have been better if he'd never been born. There would never have been a divorce. And now that he has a son, he wants to come back into my life? Too late. He ignored me for years, I want nothing to do with him. It took him this long to figure it out, that he always had the spotlight while I was left alone in the shadows to contemplate why they loved him more. The Hell with him and his new family, I don't want to see him anymore. Screw him and his false leads.
Birds sang through the holes of the towering spire. Dawn betrayed the light to a thick blanket of clouds, high in the atmosphere. The scent of the woman led him higher and higher, a trail of perfume leading to the sky. Slowly the gears of the clock dissipated in sound, until he was so far up that it no longer seemed like he was in the same world, all evidence of anything mechanical submerged under a white canopy of cloud.
When he got to the door, he found it curious how there could be one at the very top of the spire. It couldn't possibly lead anywhere, except for perhaps a terrace. He saw that it was seldom used, figuring anyone who had the stamina to climb so high on foot must either be desperately running from something or a total fool. If the woman were the former, he was surely the latter. There must be other ways of getting to the top without having to climb up an infinite steel tower. Exhausted from his own flight, he took another short rest before seeing what was on the other side of the door.
It opened to a serene cloudscape in the sky. Bulbous houses made of clouds were floating on islands of puffy cumulus; the farther up he looked, the more of them he saw. Stray threads of light filtered through the cracks between them, so that each looked like they were surrounded by astral armor. Right before him meandered a rainbow-colored trail, with a purple carpet ready at its beginning for any who wished to travel up through the floating neighborhood. In the distance he saw more trails of rainbows, used by flying unicorns, golden-helmeted albatross, and other carpets with people on them. These roads of prism were like the cross-stitches of a slackened thread, dangling from some puppeteer in the exosphere.
If Xanther didn't know any better, he could swear he'd lost his mind. Things like flying carpets and houses made of clouds simply weren't possible. They sounded more like things his brother would make up, just to get attention. He rubbed his eyes, just in case he was hallucinating, but the illusion was still there. He knew it would be pointless stepping on that carpet because he'd fall right through it to his death. Yet the question remained: where had the woman gone? He hadn't seen her coming down on the way up. Unless she'd climbed back down the spire after reaching the top, she must have gone somewhere else, somewhere vertical, or perhaps even lateral.
Temptation triumphed over skepticism. She must have stepped on that very same carpet, which had taken her up into the heavenly abode. Gingerly he stepped on it, with a lightness at first, just to see if it would sag under his foot. When it didn’t, he applied more pressure, and more and more, until both his feet were fully on it, supporting all his weight. Before he had time to react with incredulity, the carpet accelerated along the path of the rainbow. Again, he was awestruck by his surroundings. Again, he was going up.
Highways heading skyways, lost in thought through rainbows and byways. Edifice broken, dawn smeared upon the clouds, loud and proud with his head spinning 'round. A palace enchanted, a crystal amassed, floating on glass past rockets of thunder-blast. Wispy columns of clouds in flux, visceral with lightning, tethered by winds sailed by ships deluxe, deranged of method the id went sideways. Up here the air is so still, so clean, so static with ions that purify. Where he is the golden trumpets align, their sound exploring the cavity below, that vortex of gravity maligned. And the band played on while the carpets drew breath. And the cherubs flew in circles that the pieces dismantled. And up he went, higher and higher, reason relented by the dome of a seraph. And the clocks ticked no more. And the circuits broke their power. And all the things that made sense were swallowed by the vacuum of her palace. And that's when he saw her, the Queen of Arts, decked out in regalia on the alabaster terrace.
The Queen: I knew you'd follow me here.
Xanther: That was you?
The Queen: It was.
Xanther: It couldn't be. You don't look anything like the woman I followed.
The Queen: I realize how unconvincing I'd sound to a detective. You'll just have to trust me.
Xanther: How did you know I was a... Never mind. What's with all the cats? (looks around)
The Queen: Cats are a queen's delight. You can never have too many, especially when you have as many servants as I do. Go ahead, pet one... That's nice. You've always had a kind soul, Xanther.
Xanther: Many would disagree. You don't know as much about me as you think.
The Queen: I know you've been through a lot. Here we have the privilege of seeing things below through a different lens.
Xanther: What lens?
The Queen: It's different up here. You must have so many questions.
Xanther: It's the spice of my profession. I haven't been through a lot though, no more than the others down there.
The Queen: But you have. Your experiences are unique to you. Nobody could ever understand the depths of you, not without the right set of eyes.
Xanther: And I suppose you have them?
The Queen: I might.
Xanther: Alright, I'll bite. What's this all about? Why dress up like an attractive woman just to get me to follow you here? I can't imagine you being a homicidal sex maniac. Have you and my brother been conspiring against me with a false lead?
The Queen: Forgive me, but I invented the whole thing. It was the only way to get you to come here. Your brother had nothing to do with it.
Xanther: Deception isn't the best way to get one's attention.
The Queen: It wasn't so much a deception as it was a gift. I'm here to help you, Xanther. Living down among the people under the clock is a terribly dull existence. You are too attached to the machinations of logic and time.
Xanther: Who are you to judge? Does time not exist up here?
The Queen: It does, but we are not slaves to it. And I am the queen of this realm, I can judge whatever I want.
Xanther: Nope, I'm out of here.
The Queen: You said the same thing to your brother. Look where it led you. If you make the same mistake now, you'll walk straight back to that miserable life you were living. People only get so many chances, before they are lost forever.
Xanther: .... Lost forever.
The Queen: Lost for what seems like a really long time.
Xanther: Let's get one thing clear: I have no queen. There are no rulers where I come from, only the system. It has rules you have to follow. Law and order. No single person is in charge. You may have some enhanced perceptions that allow you to read people and act all superior, but I'm not like all the others. My life is perfectly fine; I couldn't be happier. You're wrong about me.
The Queen: Not according to The Novalmanac.
Xanther: What?
The Queen: It's a statistical resource we use to evaluate the quality of living among people under the clock. Yours is in the 12th percentile.
Xanther: Still better than most of the people I've arrested.
The Queen: Hah, yes. But even they aren't totally condemned.
Xanther: Are you calling me condemned now?
The Queen: Not condemned, just misunderstood. I think an open, honest correspondence with your brother would help heal the wounds your family has given you.
Xanther: I tried that already. He wasn't interested.
The Queen: He might be now that time has let his anger settle. Give it another try.
Xanther: I can't.
The Queen: Why not?
Xanther: ...Nothing would make me happier than to make peace with him. I used to idolize him when we were growing up. Everything he did, I wanted to do better. Nobody inspired me more than he did. Then he started neglecting me so much that I didn't want to be around him. I hated the sight of him. He made me feel so insignificant that living under the same roof as him was toxic.
The Queen: I'm sure he wasn't aware of how much he was hurting you. You were both forced to endure a difficult situation. Did you know he had depression for a few years?
Xanther: Yes, I knew. And to be honest he had it much harder than I did. I just didn't feel like he wanted me around. Like he didn't love me, the way a brother should. It broke my trust in him.
The Queen: I understand how hard that was for you. He always loved you, Xanther. He just had a hard time showing it, the same way you did.
Xanther: He was the bigger brother; he should have set a better example.
The Queen: That's true. You know, people have had high expectations of him his whole life. He couldn't be perfect for everyone. What he needed back then was time to himself, to do some soul searching. You also weren't the only one that was shut out by him. Your mother was hurt by him too, yet she found a way to endure his rejection. Now their relationship is stronger than ever. Forgiveness was the key in helping her get through it.
Xanther: I can't forgive him for leaving me behind. For leaving me alone with... Him.
The Queen: Your father. And his expectations.
Xanther: Yes.
The Queen. So, you projected his high expectations onto your brother, because you felt he was the only one capable of living up to them. And you feel like your brother should have seen this would happen, that he should have done something to stop it.
Xanther: Well when you put it that way...
The Queen: He was just a boy, Xanther. There was nothing he could do about the divorce. And he could no more have predicted the future than you or I could.
Xanther: He could have at least talked to me.
The Queen: Did you ever ask him about it?
Xanther: No, though he has broached the subject a few times.
The Queen: You've denied there was a problem because it's the hardest thing to talk about.
Xanther: I can't talk about it, even today.
The Queen: Just like you can't forgive him.
Xanther: Exactly.
The Queen: Opening your heart takes courage. It exposes you to vulnerability. If you spoke to him about your feelings, you're afraid he would react adversely.
Xanther: What are you, psychic?
The Queen: He wouldn't do that, Xanther.
Xanther: But he did last time.
The Queen: Because he felt like you disrespected him by not meeting his son.
Xanther: I had to cancel meeting his son. He disrespected me by not accepting the situation.
The Queen: That was a misunderstanding. You didn’t come to the hospital, nor when they invited you on the holiday, nor when the family came that weekend. You didn’t even reschedule. He tried to explain how hurt-
Xanther: I've had enough of this.
The Queen: You disowned-
Xanther: Goodbye, "Your highness".
The Queen: You disowned your brother over a misunderstanding. Don't turn back, Xanther. Don't go back down that tower. The road isn't as pretty as it is on the way up.
Xanther (pausing): I'll make it pretty.
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