Chapter Nine

Martin woke to the sound of splashing water. An old fashioned, portable bathtub stood in the center of the room, its porcelain frame facing away from the bed. He could see Rachael's back as she delighted in the luxury of scooping hot water over herself. Her red hair had been piled on top of her head and was pinned with an ivory comb of Victorian fashion. Soap bubbles slid over the back of her neck and shoulders as she hummed contentedly. Steam rose from her body.

Martin turned away as Rachael stood up in the tub unmindful of his presence, and wrapped a large bath towel around herself as she stepped onto the floor. She left wet footprints on the wood, darker than its polished surface. Martin studied them, hypnotized by the sparkle of dim light on the water as it beaded. Rachael disappeared through a narrow doorway as Martin sat up on the bed and studied the remains of his jumpsuit.

The material was torn in a dozen places, spots of dried blood on the sleeves and around his knees. The scrape marks had begun to scab over, burning painfully as he stood and began pulling rotted material from his clothes. The fungus hid the original color, and where it stained the jumpsuit it had eaten through the material. Martin began stripping the pieces off his body, paying little attention to Rachael's whereabouts. He jumped bashfully, turning his back as her head popped through the doorway.

"There is a jar of salve on the left side of the tub, it's for the sting welts. Heals them in minutes. The water in the tub is fresh, nice and hot. I'll have your coffee in just a minute."

Naked, he stepped into the water and froze, his mouth and eyes opening wide as the heat shocked him. It subsided slowly, and he eased himself into the soapy water until he sat with his head resting against the back of the tub.

Martin closed his eyes with an unbearable pleasure racking his body. Sweat dripped from his forehead as he lay soaking, feeling the pain of his bruises fading away, along with the dirt that covered him. He dozed, recalling in part, the black midnight of the sewer and the odious smell of stagnant water. He wrinkled his nose as it became bearable and turned into the smell of coffee, fresh coffee.

"The real thing? My God, it's real coffee." He sipped quickly.

"Afraid not," Rachael smiled. "It's this place, there's no effort to shaping whatever you want. It doesn't just work for yourself, but it effects others as well. Even I can get away with a decent job. Better get dressed, Gateman is waiting in the candle room."

Martin eyed Rachael's borrowed clothes and raised an eyebrow. The pant legs and shirt sleeves had been rolled up to make them fit, but they bagged comfortably for her stocky figure.

"They're real. Whoever Shaper is, he's got a closet full of clothes, slacks and shirts. I put an outfit on the bed for you. I'll meet you in the candle room." Rachael left him with a wink.

Martin dressed quickly, slipping on a pair of white sneakers. They felt comfortable despite the missing socks. The clothes fit loosely on him, and for the first time, Martin realized that he had lost considerable weight. Smiling, he strolled through the door, down two short steps and into a shadowy hall. He understood why Rachael had decided to call it the candle room.

Wax drippings covered a dozen tables, flowing into colored ribbons that dripped from burning candles of all shapes and sizes. They had been placed on benches, side boards and cupboard shelves that left only narrow passages for human movement. The light they cast flickered, wavering dim shadows back and forth, giving the impression of moving figures. Gateman actually bowed his rotund figure slightly and nodded with approval as Martin gazed around the large chamber in disbelief.

Rachael appeared, moving from behind a long table covered with burning candles. Shrugging her shoulders, she took Martin's hand and examined it carefully.

"I have no idea what all of this is for, unless he's saving on electric bills," Rachael joked. "This is the only other room I've seen, except for the bedroom. There may be more upstairs."

Martin looked toward the groundling for an explanation, but Gateman remained silent, unwilling to offer a single word. Martin was about to examine the room himself when a grating voice came from somewhere amidst the flames.

"I ain't had guests in a long time. Got no need for strangers comin' around here."

He was taller than Martin, a gruff, unshaven figure in baggy pants and an unbuttoned shirt. Wide shoulders set off a head of short, curly hair, and thin lips that seemed as cruel as Gurst's. He was not dirty, but unkempt enough to pass for a slummer in the night world of the city. Approaching Martin and Rachael, he appraised them with keen black eyes. Candle flames reflected in his unyielding gaze, as if the heat of all that fire was being held inside the two bottomless pits. Hands stuck into his back pockets, Shaper confronted Martin with total disinterest.

"They waitin' for ya' out there?"

"Uh, yes, I'm afraid they are." Shaper glanced at Rachael for a second.

"And this pretty thing too....." She nodded quickly.

"It's none of my affair." His voice sounded like stones being ground together, and Rachael winced. "Ya' got yourselves inta this, get yourselves out of it."

Turning his back on them, Shaper studied the candles with great care, making sure that each of them was still burning properly. He straightened one or two, measuring their height against the others. Reaching back without looking, he took a new candle from the groundling and set it in front of all the others. It stood slightly taller, until he lit the wick. The candle burned brilliantly, evaporating to the exact length of the others, and then flickered down into a steady glow.

"Blake," he muttered. Martin stepped forward quickly.

"Blake? Blake's dead." Shaper turned slowly to face Martin, and shook his head.

"Ya damn fool, she knows." He nodded toward Rachael.

"The delver who helped us before was Blake," she offered. "Don't ask me how, I don't believe in instantaneous reincarnation." Shaper's rough chuckle told Martin that an explanation was about to be offered.

"They work their way up by workin' their way down. I'm hungry as hell."

Shaper waved for them to follow as he left the room and started up a steep, circular stairway. Gateman stayed behind in the candle room.

"Creation begins pure, no knowledge, no fancy ideas about life except yourself. There's no sex, no screwin' around with the order of things. There ain't nothin' but feedin' yourself ta stay alive and learnin' ta keep your own place in a closed set of circumstances. Ya' messed up my nursery!"

Shaper stopped at the top of the stairs and glared down at Martin.

"Nursery," Martin dared? "They were murdering the delvers, planning a war to destroy every last one of them. What kind of a nursery....." Shaper cut him off as he crossed the landing.

"A lot ya' know. Ever watched a young kid? Greedy, wants everything for himself, including what his mother and father know. Steals their words and their ideas ta make them his own. How the hell do ya think a newborn gets character? Then, when they gets ta a point where they can think for themselves, they says, 'to hell with authority, I'm goin' ta be my own'."

Shaper led them into a small room empty of furniture except for a single wooden table and three chairs. He pointed toward them and wandered into a curtained foyer. Martin and Rachael glanced at each other quickly, sharing the familiar scene.

"Same thing here, 'cept I ain't got time for all that growin' up. Start 'em full grown with children's minds. They steal dreams from each other, and the delvers, while they sleep. Some of 'em steal from slummers. That can be real nasty." Shaper paused. "

When the time comes, they graduate down, they become delvers themselves. Ya' messed that up too. Pretty soon there may not be anythin' left 'cept the slummers."

"But the delvers have children," Rachael noted.

Shaper came back carrying a tray of fruit, steaming coffee and bread. He set it down unceremoniously, and slumped into the remaining chair.

"Delvers have thoughts too. They have sex and damn little else."

"They suffer," Martin frowned. "You let them suffer, you let the slummers and the body politic torture them. There is nothing compassionate about your world."

"Compassionate?" Shaper laughed harshly in gutteral tones. "Who the hell is compassionate in your world? Ya' said some damn hard things up there on level-ninety, were ya' being compassionate? Hell, no, ya' were too busy saving your own ass. Think about it," Shaper demanded.

"Blake wanted ta save one delver, and that was a hell of a lot more than ya' did. He was comin' inta his time. Sufferin' brings wisdom, ya' know? Nothin' makes a man reflect more than starvin' ta death, or watchin' his children starve ta death. Pain makes a child grow inta a man, agony smooths out the rough edges."

A phantom of the child grown into an adult woman, the ragged doll clutched in her hand, forced its way into their minds.

"This is unbelievable," Martin groaned. "You're god, you created this world and you don't even care what happens to the creatures in it. I made mistakes, yes, but you did it all on purpose."

Shaper laughed quietly, then bit into an apple. Pushing the tray toward Rachael, he nodded in a motion for her to eat.

"Better get somethin' down, you'll need strength when ya' go back out there. They won't kill ya real quick." Martin's skin burned with anger and fear, but Shaper's raised hand stopped his untempered words before they could be spoken.

"First, Mister, I ain't their god. They got no religion, just me. I made it and it worked. Ya' screwed it all up just by comin' here. Are ya' crazy enough ta think this tree crap is somethin' I dreamed up? The damn thing is drivin' me crazy, and I'd use stronger language but there's a lady present."

"A penny-ante creation," Martin grumbled.

"Margo didn't look so cheap ta ya," Shaper laughed. "Big tits and a fine ass, sure didn't think she was penny-ante, did ya?" Martin blushed.

"Human frailty," Shaper preached. "Human frailty got nothin' ta do with the body politic. They're strong youngsters, determined, but they do what they're told. No free will, no deviatin' from the road I set down. Each one grows from the top of the tree ta the roots, and what's the strongest part of the tree? Hell, one good wind and the top's gone. The roots, the roots got ta be tough ta last!"

All at once, Martin understood. With his mouth open and looking foolish, he understood. Rachael took his hand, smiling up at him with a simple nod.

"Tell him, girly, let him in on the big secret." Shaper indulged in a large piece of dry bread.

"A child believes that it orders everything in its universe, that it is the center of all things. We know better, but only because we have had the chance to grow and find out that we are wrong. When we begin to analyze things, our lives, we discover that only a very few people have the chance to act independently, even as adults. There is always someone or something directing our lives. We are seldom in charge of our own circumstances."

Martin's brow furrowed as he contemplated one corner of the table. A flood of thoughts poured through his mind, slowed, and allowed him to make sense out of the confusion that assailed him. He understood, but how to put it into words?

"The body politic was in charge of nothing?"

"Exactly," Shaper smiled.

"But they murder the delvers, and the delvers do not resist. They can shape, but they never do it to save themselves. They don't protest their fate," he finished.

"Protest," Shaper demanded? "What for, so's they can take a life ta stop from bein' killed? Anger, hatred, why should they go back ta all that childish nonsense? Why would they want ta become the body politic all over again? Tell me, what did ya see in Blake's eyes when he shaped ta a delver?" Martin hesitated, trying to see those eyes again.

"Pain, helplessness, and anger at being made what he was, a victim!"

"Good, there was anger, you're right. He's young in that realm, there's still the will ta resist. But for him ta reach perfection, he has ta lose the desire for revenge, he gotta' become totally submissive. Isn't that true in your world too?" Martin blinked.

"Got ya!" Shaper smiled with satisfaction.

"Led like a lamb to the slaughter," Rachael whispered. "The perfect sacrifice."

"But in our world, we mass armies to save people who are being tortured and executed. And even the victims form resistance forces. Is that wrong," Martin asked?

"Not for them, no. That's the level they've reached. In time, if your shaper allows it, they'll learn ta grow higher by becomin' lower. There will always be those like Blake, who want ta save one life or many. Those who gotta die, though they go with terror in their hearts and frozen by fear, will learn that they only become the roots of the tree by bendin' ta their fate. My delvers seem ta be way ahead of your world."

"And now," Martin asked? Somehow he knew what the answer would be.

"And now you'll make your decision, or be forced ta it, as it is with anyone. You'll go out the front door ta face those who want ta make ya victims, or you'll wait until this place rots ta pieces, and find yourselves standing in front of Gurst and the population of the city. Believe me, they'll be there waitin' on ya. One way or another, we will all fulfill everythin' that's intended for us."

Rachael's voice broke a long silence.

"How do we get back to our tree," Rachael asked?

"The inevitable question," Shaper smiled, "how do we escape our fate? Well, it would seem you're on the wrong side of the city for that. Right now I got a lot a work ta do. I can't change what you've done, but I can make adjustments."

"Is there another door out of this building," Martin insisted?

"There's one door in and one door out, that's the rule here."

"But there is more than one way to get to them," Gateman added.

The huge frame of the groundling blocked the doorway, a scowl lining his round face. Shaper pointed at him and shook his head sadly.

"He's another form of sacrifice, giving up one's life ta save another. If ya insist on this," Shaper warned, "ya know the price ya gotta' pay. I'd think mighty hard about doin' this."

Without another word, Shaper put the tray back behind the curtained foyer and made his way toward the stairs. He stopped beside Gateman and stared at him for a long time before he patted him on the shoulder. Shaper walked past the groundling and started down the stairs.

"He means no harm." The groundling smiled. "It is his nature to seem indifferent. Actually he cares a great deal. But, it is time to go. You will be saved the impossible task of running back through the entire city. When we leave the temple, head away from the city and out onto the plain.

"But that....." Martin started to protest.

"Do as I tell you, head out into the desert.

As though they had been commanded to follow the groundling, Martin and Rachael walked down the stairs behind him. They shook with fear, trembling inside until their stomachs knotted up and fear became painful. Martin's mouth went dry, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as Gateman pushed the front door open.

Madness faced them. The plain between the temple and the city was filled with people, beam-walkers, slummers, groundlings, and the citizens of level-ninety. Gurst and Margo stood only paces in front of them. They leered at the three figures, blood-lust rising as their prey stood cornered on the porch of the temple. Gateman closed the door behind them.

"Hello, Martin."

Margo smiled coyly, her bright red jumpsuit leaping out of the darkness toward them. Arching her back, the blonde thrust her firm breasts at Martin and giggled.

"Want to share my dreams again, delver?" She laughed insanely. "This time I am going to finish what I started. Rachael first, and then my beam-mate."

Gurst took hold of her arm and pulled Margo back as she started toward them. His blade glimmered in the dark and red splashed onto the ground, releasing her life force. She grinned, sharp white teeth bared as a death mask took her beautiful face and ended it. Margo fell face down in the dirt and did not move.

"Mindless bitch," the slummer hissed. "One day she'll learn that you belong to me. We are the inheritance of this world, we were the first. Did Shaper fill you with his rot, did he bother to tell you who was here when he came? We were," Gurst spat, "we were, the slummers."

As he spoke, Gurst moved forward, brandishing the extended blade with an evil smile lining his greasy face. Rachael took hold of Martin's arm, drawing against his side as the slummer's gaze fixed on her.

"Are you ready," Gateman whispered?

Martin's head shook as he nodded, smelling the foul breath of Gurst's words. Neither of them saw him move until Gateman's ham-like fist bludgeoned into Gurst's face. Flesh and blood sprayed into the air as he fell back and crumbled to the ground. The groundling turned and raced off onto the midnight expanse of the plain beyond them. Stunned, Martin turned and stood still. The temple was gone, another door with no way back. Clutching Rachael's hand, he ran as fast as he could. The entire city rushed up behind them.

Flat, hard ground pounded under their feet, sweat pouring from every pore in their bodies, but they ran with a storm of humanity pressing them on. Gateman came into view again, his rotund figure struggling to go on, wiping his face as he waddled along.

"Go, run to the tree."

Rachael heard the shot above the thundering of the mob, felt it pass through her soul like a whisper. She stopped running and turned to face what she knew had happened. Gateman lay face down, blood running from the side of his head.

"GATEMAN!" She screamed.

Martin rushed back with her, kneeling beside the still figure, knowing that life was ebbing away. Shocked by his own action, he looked up quickly and stared at the sea of faces. Silence murdered every sound, it cloaked the world until nothing existed except the groundling's labored breathing. Martin turned the roly-poly over gently, and Rachael cradled his head in her lap.

"You must go," he whispered, "they will not pass me yet."

"No," Rachael cried, "we are not going to leave you like this."

A faint smile crossed the groundling's face as he stared at the water running from Rachael's eyes. His trembling hand reached out, a finger touching her cheek like a feather.

"What is this?"

"Tears," she sobbed. Gateman closed his eyes.

"Tears, yes. I will remember, dainty pearls. I must shape them with great care. Go, go now." His hand dropped from Rachael's face with finality.

"Oh, God, no." Rachael took Gateman's head and laid it on the ground, pushing his eyes closed with a gentle pressure.

"We have done the unthinkable."

The familiar voice came from behind Martin, deep and commanding in tone. Martin and Rachael rose to face the Governor as he looked down at the ruined shaping of Gateman. His elite guard stood about him, weapons lowered to the ground. The white hair shone even in the darkness of the plain, but now it was a helmet of mourning that crowned the ancient head. When he finally looked up there was no anger in his eyes.

"Not slummer, not delver, not beam-walker, not body politic, you are an alien breed. By the shaper, what are you to bring such tragedy upon us?" Fairmont knelt beside the still figure of the groundling and touched his brow.

"We are.....human beings, people from another dimension," Martin offered.

"What will you do with him," Rachael asked?

Fairmont looked up with a puzzled expression. Rising to his full height he stared at Rachael and then at Martin as though they should have known. For the first time he seemed assured that they were not delver spies.

"Mourn him, of course. After the burial we will go to the temple and praise him." He held up a hand. "Of course, but how could you know. The groundling is Shaper, evolved from slummer to level-ninety's spore, to delver, to groundling, to become the root of the tree, the new Shaper."

"But," Martin exploded, "what about that shaper?" He pointed at the temple as it shimmered back into existence.

"That one has a powerful mind, a myriad of places and times to explore, doorways and dimensions, extensions. He will become the city, Gateman will shape its exterior. I do not know what will happen to you."

Understanding overwhelmed Martin and Rachael. Gate-man, the custodian of all the doorways, entrances and exits, of the metropolis. They ran into the darkness, leaving Fairmont and the others staring after them. A darker shape than night loomed up out of the plain. Their legs stiffened as they hurried up the shallow hill. The shape of a dead, leafless tree rose above them into the night air, its angular branches haloed by the glow of a distant city on the horizon. They had come full circle.

Martin reached the tree in pain, his breath dragging from lungs that could not supply enough air to keep him from being dizzy. Rachael fell to her knees beside him as Martin looked back toward the temple. An enormous army appeared as a darker shadow than the midnight surrounding it. The city close behind was displayed in an array of light and color that defied the imagination.

The west-side elevators rose and fell in a shower of green, their cables glistening with silver light in addition to the lights of the platforms. They ran within columns of multicolored stars, all in pastel shades. Blending toward the Great Tower, they showered up into an enormous, golden flower. From it, platinum pearls fell slowly toward level-one, smoothing the entire scene in silk.

"Tears, yes. I will remember, dainty pearls. I must shape them with great care," Rachael whispered. "Gateman, he knew all the time."

"The entire city has changed. Like the sunrise, a new day has begun."

Holding his side, Martin sagged against the tree and closed his eyes. Melancholy rose up inside him, a longing to go back and spend eternity in the security of level-ninety. The emotion turned to open desire as Gurst raced up the hill.

Rachael's scream was all that kept Martin from death. He turned aside as the slummer's blade sank into the dead wood beside his chest. Sick yellow teeth snarled, the eyes of hatred staring at him from Gurst's bloody skull. His face was ruined.

"No groundlings' enough to finish me," he hissed, "but I will end you, delver, right now."

Gurst pulled at the knife, twisting the handle in an effort to free his weapon from the tree. The blade snapped, breaking off at the hilt. In Fear, Martin rushed the slummer, striking him with both fists as his body hit Gurst solidly. Turning with the blow, the slummer swung his free hand and hit Martin in the face.

Glaring at his prey, Gurst threw the handle aside and reached for Martin's throat. Strong hands lifted Martin off the ground, fingers closing, squeezing the last breath from his body. With a soft groan, Gurst's eyes turned up toward the night sky and he slumped to the ground. Rachael stood over him with the knife handle gripped tightly.

"He never heard of brass knuckles," she grunted.

Blood trickled from a small wound in Gurst's temple, and from the single shard of blade that had remained in the knife's handle. It had imbedded in his skull with deadly results.

Rachael stared at Gurst's motionless body and began to sob quietly, deep down inside. Martin struggled to his feet, the mark of Gurst's bloodlust red on his throat. He took the ruined weapon from Rachael's shaking hand and threw it to the ground beside the slummer.

"It's over, all over. Let's go home."

Reaching for the weathered trunk, Martin leaned against the hard wood for support. Rachael stared at his figure and backed away, a hand covering her mouth as she recognized the scene.

"Rachael, what's the matter?"

"You, look at you.....it's the fresco. The figure with no face leaning against the tree. You shaped it while we were on level-ninety and now it's complete. Martin, MARTIN....."

The breeze came out of nowhere, rustling leaves that did not exist, moving branches gently under a silver, moon-lit sky that broke through from another world. The smile on Martin's face disappeared with him, shimmering into nothing as Rachael screamed.

"Martin, no.....let go! Let it go!"

Rachael grabbed the lowest limb and began to climb, twisting her way amongst the scratching, dead branches, snapping sapless twigs loose as she clawed higher into the folds of the tree. Limbs creaked, bending with her weight as she neared the top. Hysteria gave her a strength she did not know she possessed. The last short limbs felt different, bending easily in her hands, leaves slapping her face as the night wind chilled her shivering body.

Rachael's feet tested each branch as she climbed down through the rustling foliage of the large oak tree, giving slightly as the stairway began to close. She did not think about how she could be climbing down when she had just been climbing up. All she could see through her tears was the smile on Martin's face as he dissolved into thin air.

The larger branches near the bottom of the tree were still slippery from a midsummer nights drizzle, and she had to sit down, sliding from branch to branch as she neared the ground. Her skin prickled, fear darting like an animal through the limbs around her. She looked back expecting to see a dark figure pursuing her through the shadows. Rachael's gripped loosened, slipping from the branch as her feet gave way under her and she fell.

The rope swung beside her, its end dragging across the grass and then touching her face as she stirred. The back of Rachael's head ached, forcing her to lay on the wet grass as she tested her arms and legs carefully.

"Nothing broken," she muttered out loud. "Martin?"

She bolted upright and stared into the depths of the leafy oak. Pushing the coils of rope off her body, she turned against the trunk and rubbed the back of her head. The rest of the line still in the tree swirled, turning faster as a weight slid down its length. Martin fell to the turf with a thud.

"Damn it, Martin, I thought you were never coming down. Martin? Are you alright?"

He sat on the ground and stared dumbly into the night. An alien scene lingered in his mind, repeating itself over and over again. Martin lay on his back in the wet grass, hands cupped behind his head. Rachael shook her head and crawled next to him.

"You handle adverse situations with such a flair. You are insane."

Rachael laughed with relief and then frowned. A single thought escaped her, something on the tip of her tongue that she could not quite bring to mind. Martin was mumbling on about a doorway, words she only heard in the corner of her mind, meaningless phrases.

"You still don't believe me, do you?"

"Believe.....what? I'm sorry." She cleared her throat. "Not having seen what you did, I find it hard to accept, but let's suppose this place exists. You've been there, what do you plan to do now"

"The words came out easily in the midst of their conversation. There was nothing hard about asking the question.

"I'm going back," he announced.

"To look through the door again?

"To go through and see what's there."

Silence.

The End