Recording Angel - a novelette by Paul J McAuleyRecording Angel
      a novelette 
      by Paul J McAuley 




Mr Naryan, the Archivist of Sensch, still keeps to his habits as much as 
possible, despite all that has happened since Angel arrived in the city. He has 
clung to these personal rituals for a very long time now, and it is not easy to 
let them go. And so, on the day that Angel's ship is due to arrive and attempt 
to reclaim her, the day that will end in revolution, or so Angel has promised 
her followers, as ever, at dusk, as the Rim Mountains of Confluence tip above 
the disc of its star and the Eye of the Preservers rises above the far side of 
the world, Mr Naryan walks across the long plaza at the edge of the city towards 
the Great River. 
Rippling patterns swirl out from his feet, silver and gold racing away through 
the plaza's living marble. Above his head, clouds of little machines spin 
through the twilight: information's dense weave. At the margin of the plaza, 
broad steps shelve into the river's brown slop. Naked children scamper through 
the shallows, turning to watch as Mr Naryan, old and fat and leaning on his 
stick at every other stride, limps past and descends the submerged stair until 
only his hairless head is above water. He draws a breath and ducks completely 
under. His nostrils pinch shut. Membranes slide across his eyes. As always, the 
bass roar of the river's fall over the edge of the world stirs his heart. He 
surfaces, spouting water, and the children hoot. He ducks under again and comes 
up quickly, and the children scamper back from his spray, breathless with 
delight. Mr Naryan laughs with them and walks back up the steps, his loose 
belted shirt shedding water and quickly drying in the parched dusk air. 
Further on, a funeral party is launching little clay lamps into the river's 
swift currents. The men, waist-deep in brown water, turn as Mr Naryan limps 
past, knuckling their broad, narrow foreheads. Their wet skins gleam with the 
fire of the sunset that is now gathering in on itself across leagues of water. 
Mr Naryan genuflects in acknowledgement, feeling an icy shame. The woman died 
before he could hear her story; her, and seven others in the last few days. It 
is a bitter failure. 
Angel, and all that she has told him -- Mr Naryan wonders whether he will be 
able to hear out the end of her story. She has promised to set the city aflame 
and, unlike Dreen, Mr Naryan believes that she can. 
A mendicant is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the steps down to the river. 
An old man, sky-clad and straight-backed. He seems to be staring into the 
sunset, in the waking trance that is the nearest that the Shaped citizens of 
Sensch ever come to sleep. Tears brim in his wide eyes and pulse down his 
leathery cheeks; a small silver moth has settled at the corner of his left eye 
to sip salt. 
Mr Naryan drops a handful of the roasted peanuts he carries for the purpose into 
the mendicant's bowl, and walks on. He walks a long way before he realises that 
a crowd has gathered at the end of the long plaza, where the steps end and, with 
a sudden jog, the docks begin. Hundreds of machines swarm in the darkening air, 
and behind this shuttling weave a line of magistrates stand shoulder to 
shoulder, flipping their quirts back and forth as if to drive off flies. Metal 
tags braided into the tassels of the quirts wink and flicker; the magistrates' 
flared red cloaks seem inflamed in the last light of the sun. 
The people make a rising and falling hum, the sound of discontent. They are 
looking upriver. Mr Naryan, with a catch in his heart, realises what they must 
be looking at. 
It is a speck of light on the horizon, where the broad ribbon of the river and 
the broad ribbon of the land narrow to a single point. It is the lighter towing 
Angel's ship, at the end of its long journey to the desert city where she has 
taken refuge, and caught Mr Naryan in the net of her tale. 



Mr Naryan first heard about Angel from Dreen, Sensch's Commissioner; in fact, 
Dreen paid a visit to Mr Naryan's house to convey the news in person. His 
passage through the narrow streets of the quarter was the focus of a swelling 
congregation which kept a space two paces wide around him as he ambled towards 
the house where Mr Naryan had his apartment. 
Dreen was a lively but tormented fellow who was paying off a debt of conscience 
by taking the more or less ceremonial position of Commissioner in this remote 
city which his ancestors had long ago abandoned. Slight and agile, his head 
clean-shaven except for a fringe of polychrome hair that framed his parchment 
face, he looked like a lily blossom swirling on the Great River's current as he 
made his way through the excited crowd. A pair of magistrates preceded him and a 
remote followed, a mirror-coloured seed that seemed to move through the air in 
brief rapid pulses like a squeezed watermelon pip. A swarm of lesser machines 
spun above the packed heads of the crowd. Machines did not entirely trust the 
citizens, with good reason. Change Wars raged up and down the length of 
Confluence as, one by one, the ten thousand races of the Shaped fell from 
innocence. 
Mr Naryan, alerted by the clamour, was already standing on his balcony when 
Dreen reached the house. Scrupulously polite, his voice amplified through a 
little machine that fluttered before his lips, Dreen enquired if he might come 
up. The crowd fell silent as he spoke, so that his last words echoed eerily up 
and down the narrow street. When Mr Naryan said mildly that the Commissioner was 
of course always welcome, Dreen made an elaborate genuflection and scrambled 
straight up the fretted carvings which decorated the front of the apartment 
house. He vaulted the wrought iron rail and perched in the ironwood chair that 
Mr Naryan usually took when he was tutoring a pupil. 
While Mr Naryan lowered his corpulent bulk onto the stool that was the only 
other piece of furniture on the little balcony, Dreen said cheerfully that he 
had not walked so far for more than a year. He accepted the tea and sweetmeats 
that Mr Naryan's wife, terrified by his presence, offered, and added, "It really 
would be more convenient if you took quarters appropriate to your status." 
As Commissioner, Dreen had use of the vast palace of intricately carved pink 
sandstone that dominated the southern end of the city, although he chose to live 
in a tailored habitat of hanging gardens that hovered above the palace's spiky 
towers. 
Mr Naryan said, "My calling requires that I live amongst the people. How else 
would I understand their stories? How else would they find me?" 
"By any of the usual methods, of course -- or you could multiply yourself so 
that every one of these snakes had their own archivist. Or you could use 
machines. But I forget, your calling requires that you use only appropriate 
technology. That's why I'm here, because you won't have heard the news." 
Dreen had an abrupt style, but he was neither as brutal nor as ruthless as his 
brusqueness suggested. Like Mr Naryan, who understood Dreen's manner completely, 
he was there to serve, not to rule. 
Mr Naryan confessed that he had heard nothing unusual, and Dreen said eagerly, 
"There's a woman arrived here. A star-farer. Her ship landed at Ys last year, as 
I remember telling you." 
"I remember seeing a ship land at Ys, but I was a young man then, Dreen. I had 
not taken orders." 
"Yes, yes," Dreen said impatiently, "picket boats and the occasional merchant's 
argosy still use the docks. But this is different. She claims to be from the 
deep past. The very deep past, before the Preservers." 
"I can see that her story would be interesting if it were true." 
Dreen beat a rhythm on his skinny thighs with the flat of his hands. "Yes, yes! 
A human woman, returned after millions of years of travelling outside the 
Galaxy. But there's more! She is only one of a whole crew, and she's jumped 
ship. Caused some fuss. It seems the others want her back." 
"She is a slave, then?" 
"It seems she may be bound to them as you are bound to your order." 
"Then you could return her. Surely you know where she is?" 
Dreen popped a sweetmeat in his mouth and chewed with gusto. His flat-topped 
teeth were all exactly the same size. He wiped his wide lipless mouth with the 
back of his hand and said, "Of course I know where she is -- that's not the 
point. The point is that no one knows if she's lying, or her shipmates are lying 
-- they're a nervy lot, I'm told. Not surprising, culture shock and all that. 
They've been travelling a long time. Five million years, if their story's to be 
believed. Of course, they weren't alive for most of that time. But still." 
Mr Naryan said, "What do you believe?" 
"Does it matter? This city matters. Think what trouble she could cause!" 
"If her story is true." 
"Yes, yes. That's the point. Talk to her, eh? Find out the truth. Isn't that 
what your order's about? Well, I must get on." 
Mr Naryan did not bother to correct Dreen's misapprehension. He observed, "The 
crowd has grown somewhat." 
Dreen smiled broadly and rose straight into the air, his toes pointing down, his 
arms crossed with his palms flat on his shoulders. The remote rose with him. Mr 
Naryan had to shout to make himself heard over the cries and cheers of the 
crowd. 
"What shall I do?" 
Dreen checked his ascent and shouted back, "You might tell her that I'm here to 
help!" 
"Of course!" 
But Dreen was rising again, and did not hear Mr Naryan. As he rose he picked up 
speed, dwindling rapidly as he shot across the jumbled rooftops of the city 
towards his eyrie. The remote drew a silver line behind him; a cloud of lesser 
machines scattered across the sky as they strained to keep up. 
The next day, when as usual Mr Naryan stopped to buy the peanuts he would 
scatter amongst any children or mendicants he encountered as he strolled through 
the city, the nut roaster said that he'd seen a strange woman only an hour 
before -- she'd had no coin, but the nut roaster had given her a bag of shelled 
salted nuts all the same. 
"Was that the right thing to do, master?" the nut roaster asked. His eyes 
glittered anxiously beneath the shelf of his ridged brow. 
Mr Naryan, knowing that the man had been motivated by a cluster of artificial 
genes implanted in his ancestors to ensure that they and all their children 
would give aid to any human who requested it, assured the nut roaster that his 
conduct had been worthy. He proffered coin in ritual payment for the bag of warm 
oily peanuts, and the nut roaster made his usual elaborate refusal. 
"When you see her, master, tell her that she will find no plumper or more 
savoury peanuts in the whole city. I will give her whatever she desires!" 
All day, as Mr Naryan made his rounds of the tea shops, and even when he heard 
out the brief story of a woman who had composed herself for death, he expected 
to be accosted by an exotic wild-eyed stranger. That same expectation distracted 
him in the evening, as the magistrate's son haltingly read from the Puranas 
while all around threads of smoke from neighbourhood kitchen fires rose into the 
black sky. How strange the city suddenly seemed to Mr Naryan: the intent face of 
the magistrate's son, with its faint intaglio of scales and broad shelving brow, 
seemed horribly like a mask. Mr Naryan felt a deep longing for his youth, and 
after the boy had left he stood under the shower for more than an hour, letting 
water penetrate every fold and cranny of his hairless, corpulent body until his 
wife anxiously called to him, asking if he was all right. 
The woman did not come to him that day, or the next. She was not seeking him at 
all. It was only by accident that Mr Naryan met her at last. 
She was sitting at the counter of a tea shop, in the deep shadow beneath its 
tasselled awning. The shop was at the corner of the camel market, where knots of 
dealers and handlers argued about the merits of this or that animal and 
saddlemakers squatted crosslegged amongst their wares before the low, cave-like 
entrances to their workshops. Mr Naryan would have walked right past the shop if 
the proprietor had not hurried out and called to him, explaining that here was a 
human woman who had no coin, but he was letting her drink what she wished, and 
was that right? 
Mr Naryan sat beside the woman, but did not speak after he had ordered his own 
tea. He was curious and excited and afraid: she looked at him when he sat down 
and put his cane across his knees, but her gaze merely brushed over him without 
recognition. 
She was tall and slender, hunched at the counter with elbows splayed. She was 
dressed, like every citizen of Sensch, in a loose, raw cotton overshirt. Her 
hair was as black and thick as any citizen's, too, worn long and caught in a 
kind of net slung at her shoulder. Her face was sharp and small-featured, intent 
from moment to moment on all that happened around her -- a bronze machine 
trawling through the dusty sunlight beyond the awning's shadow; a vendor of 
pomegranate juice calling his wares; a gaggle of women laughing as they passed; 
a sled laden with prickly pear gliding by, two handspans above the dusty 
flagstones -- but nothing held her attention for more than a moment. She held 
her bowl of tea carefully in both hands, and sucked at the liquid clumsily when 
she drank, holding each mouthful for a whole minute before swallowing and then 
spitting twiggy fragments into the copper basin on the counter. 
Mr Naryan felt that he should not speak to her unless she spoke first. He was 
disturbed by her: he had grown into his routines, and this unsought 
responsibility frightened him. No doubt Dreen was watching through one or 
another of the little machines that flitted about the sunny, salt-white square 
-- but that was not sufficient compulsion, except that now he had found her, he 
could not leave her. 
At last, the owner of the tea house refilled the woman's bowl and said softly, 
"Our Archivist is sitting beside you." 
The woman turned jerkily, spilling her tea. "I'm not going back," she said. 
"I've told them that I won't serve." 
"No one has to do anything here," Mr Naryan said, feeling that he must calm her. 
"That is the point. My name is Naryan, and I have the honour, as our good host 
has pointed out, of being the Archivist of Sensch." 
The woman smiled at this, and said that he could call her Angel; her name also 
translated as Monkey, but she preferred the former. "You're not like the others 
here," she added, as if she had only just realised. "I saw people like you in 
the port city, and one let me ride on his boat down the river until we reached 
the edge of a civil war. But after that every one of the cities I passed through 
seemed to be inhabited by only one race, and each was different from the next." 
"It is true that this is a remote city," Mr Naryan said. 
He could hear the faint drums of the procession. It was the middle of the day, 
when the sun halted at its zenith before reversing back down the sky. 
The woman, Angel, heard the drums too. She looked around with a kind of preening 
motion as the procession came through the flame trees on the far side of the 
square. It reached this part of the city at the same time every day. It was led 
by a bare-chested man who beat a big drum draped in cloth of gold; it was held 
before him by a leather strap that went around his neck. The steady beat echoed 
across the square. Behind him slouched or capered ten, twenty, thirty naked men 
and women. Their hair was long and ropey with dirt; their fingernails were 
curved yellow talons. 
Angel drew her breath sharply as the rag-taggle procession shuffled past, 
following the beat of the drum into the curving street that led out of the 
square. She said, "This is a very strange place. Are they mad?" 
Mr Naryan explained, "They have not lost their reason, but have had it taken 
away. For some it will be returned in a year; it was taken away from them as a 
punishment. Others have renounced their own selves for the rest of their lives. 
It is a religious avocation. But saint or criminal, they were all once as fully 
aware as you or me." 
"I'm not like you," she said. "I'm not like any of the crazy kinds of people I 
have met." 
Mr Naryan beckoned to the owner of the tea house and ordered two more bowls. "I 
understand you have come a long way." Although he was terrified of her, he was 
certain that he could draw her out. 
But Angel only laughed. 
Mr Naryan said, "I do not mean to insult you." 
"You dress like a ... native. Is that a religious avocation?" 
"It is my profession. I am the Archivist here." 
"The people here are different -- a different race in every city. When I left, 
not a single intelligent alien species was known. It was one reason for my 
voyage. Now there seem to be thousands strung along this long, long river. They 
treat me like a ruler -- is that it? Or a god?" 
"The Preservers departed long ago. These are the end times." 
Angel said dismissively, "There are always those who believe they live at the 
end of history. We thought that we lived at the end of history, when every star 
system in the Galaxy had been mapped, every habitable world settled." 
For a moment, Mr Naryan thought that she would tell him of where she had been, 
but she added, "I was told that the Preservers, who I suppose were my 
descendants, made the different races, but each race calls itself human, even 
the ones who don't look like they could have evolved from anything that ever 
looked remotely human." 
"The Shaped call themselves human because they have no other name for what they 
have become, innocent and fallen alike. After all, they had no name before they 
were raised up. The citizens of Sensch remain innocent. They are our ... 
responsibility." 
He had not meant for it to sound like a plea. 
"You're not doing all that well," Angel said, and started to tell him about the 
Change War she had tangled with upriver, on the way to this, the last city at 
the midpoint of the world. 
It was a long, complicated story, and she kept stopping to ask Mr Naryan 
questions, most of which, despite his extensive readings of the Puranas, he was 
unable to answer. As she talked, Mr Naryan transcribed her speech on his tablet. 
She commented that a recording device would be better, but by reading back a 
long speech she had just made he demonstrated that his close diacritical marks 
captured her every word. 
"But that is not its real purpose, which is an aid to fix the memory in my 
head." 
"You listen to peoples' stories." 
"Stories are important. In the end they are all that is left, all that history 
leaves us. Stories endure." And Mr Naryan wondered if she saw what was all too 
clear to him, the way her story would end, if she stayed in the city. 
Angel considered his words. "I have been out of history a long time," she said 
at last. "I'm not sure that I want to be a part of it again." She stood up so 
quickly that she knocked her stool over, and left. 
Mr Naryan knew better than to follow her. That night, as he sat enjoying a 
cigarette on his balcony, under the baleful glare of the Eye of the Preservers, 
a remote came to him. Dreen's face materialised above the remote's silver 
platter and told him that the woman's shipmates knew that she was here. They 
were coming for her. 



As the ship draws closer, looming above the glowing lighter that tows it, Mr 
Naryan begins to make out its shape. It is a huge black wedge composed of tiers 
of flat plates that rise higher than the tallest towers of the city. Little 
lights, mostly red, gleam here and there within its ridged carapace. Mr Naryan 
brushes mosquitoes from his bare arms, watching the black ship move beneath a 
black sky empty except for the Eye of the Preservers and a few dim halo stars. 
Here, at the midpoint of the world, the Home Galaxy will not rise until winter. 
The crowd has grown. It becomes restless. Waves of emotion surge back and forth. 
Mr Naryan feels them pass through the citizens packed around him, although he 
hardly understands what they mean, for all the time he has lived with these 
people. 
He has been allowed to pass through the crowd with the citizens' usual generous 
deference, and now stands close to the edge of the whirling cloud of machines 
which defends the dock, twenty paces or so from the magistrates who nervously 
swish their quirts to and fro. The crowd's thick yeasty odour fills his 
nostrils; its humming disquiet, modulating up and down, penetrates to the marrow 
of his bones. Now and then a machine ignites a flare of light that sweeps over 
the front ranks of the crowd, and the eyes of the men and women shine blankly 
orange, like so many little sparks. 
At last the ship passes the temple complex at the upriver edge of the city, its 
wedge rising like a wave above the temple's clusters of slim spiky towers. The 
lighter's engines go into reverse; waves break in whitecaps on the steps beyond 
the whirl of machines and the grim line of magistrates. 
The crowd's hum rises in pitch. Mr Naryan finds himself carried forward as it 
presses towards the barrier defined by the machines. The people around him 
apologise effusively for troubling him, trying to minimise contact with him in 
the press as snails withdraw from salt. 
The machines' whirl stratifies, and the magistrates raise their quirts and shout 
a single word lost in the noise of the crowd. The people in the front rank of 
the crowd fall to their knees, clutching their eyes and wailing: the machines 
have shut down their optic nerves. 
Mr Naryan, shown the same deference by the machines as by the citizens, suddenly 
finds himself isolated amongst groaning and weeping citizens, confronting the 
row of magistrates. One calls to him, but he ignores the man. 
He has a clear view of the ship, now. It has come to rest a league away, at the 
far end of the docks, but Mr Naryan has to tip his head back and back to see the 
top of the ship's tiers. It is as if a mountain has drifted against the edge of 
the city. 
A new sound drives across the crowd, as a wind drives across a field of wheat. 
Mr Naryan turns and, by the random flare of patrolling machines, is astonished 
to see how large the crowd has grown. It fills the long plaza, and more people 
stand on the rooftops along its margin. Their eyes are like a harvest of stars. 
They are all looking towards the ship, where Dreen, standing on a cargo sled, 
ascends to meet the crew. 
Mr Naryan hooks the wire frames of his spectacles over his ears, and the crew 
standing on top of the black ship snap into clear focus. 
There are fifteen, men and women all as tall as Angel. They loom over Dreen as 
he welcomes them with effusive gestures. Mr Naryan can almost smell Dreen's 
anxiety. He wants the crew to take Angel away, and order restored. He will be 
telling them where to find her. 
Mr Naryan feels a pang of anger. He turns and makes his way through the crowd. 
When he reaches its ragged margin, everyone around him suddenly looks straight 
up. Dreen's sled sweeps overhead, carrying his guests to the safety of the 
floating habitat above the pink sandstone palace. The crowd surges forward -- 
and all the little machines fall from the air! 
One lands close to Mr Naryan, its carapace burst open at the seams. Smoke pours 
from it. An old woman picks it up -- Mr Naryan smells her burnt flesh as it 
sears her hand -- and throws it at him. 
Her shot goes wide. Mr Naryan is so astonished that he does not even duck. He 
glimpses the confusion as the edge of the crowd collides with the line of 
magistrates: some magistrates run, their red cloaks streaming at their backs; 
others throw down their quirts and hold out their empty hands. The crowd devours 
them. Mr Naryan limps away as fast as he can, his heart galloping with fear. 
Ahead is a wide avenue leading into the city, and standing in the middle of the 
avenue is a compact group of men, clustered about a tall figure. 
It is Angel. 



Mr Naryan told Angel what Dreen had told him, that the ship was coming to the 
city, the very next day. It was at the same tea house. She did not seem 
surprised. "They need me," she said. "How long will they take?" 
"Well, they cannot come here directly. Confluence's maintenance system will only 
allow ships to land at designated docks, but the machinery of the spaceport 
docks here has grown erratic and dangerous through disuse. The nearest place 
they could safely dock is five hundred leagues away, and after that the ship 
must be towed downriver. It will take time. What will you do?" 
Angel passed a hand over her sleek black hair. "I like it here. I could be 
comfortable." 
She had already been given a place in which to live by a wealthy merchant 
family. She took Mr Naryan to see it. It was near the river, a small two storey 
house built around a courtyard shaded by a jacaranda tree. People were going in 
and out, carrying furniture and carpets. Three men were painting the wooden rail 
of the balcony that ran around the upper storey. They were painting it pink and 
blue, and cheerfully singing as they worked. Angel was amused by the bustle, and 
laughed when Mr Naryan said that she should not take advantage of the citizens. 
"They seem so happy to help me. What's wrong with that?" 
Mr Naryan thought it best not to explain about the cluster of genes implanted in 
all the races of the Shaped, the reflex altruism of the unfallen. A woman 
brought out tea and a pile of crisp, wafer-thin fritters sweetened with 
crystallised honey. Two men brought canopied chairs. Angel sprawled in one, 
invited Mr Naryan to sit in the other. She was quite at ease, grinning every 
time someone showed her the gift they had brought her. 
Dreen, Mr Naryan knew, would be dismayed. Angel was a barbarian, displaced by 
five million years. She had no idea of the careful balance by which one must 
live with the innocent, the unfallen, if their cultures were to survive. Yet she 
was fully human, free to choose, and that freedom was inviolable. No wonder 
Dreen was so eager for the ship to reclaim her. 
Still, Angel's rough joy was infectious, and Mr Naryan soon found himself 
smiling with her at the sheer abundance of trinkets scattered around her. No one 
was giving unless they were glad to give, and no one who gave was poor. The only 
poor in Sensch were the sky-clad mendicants who had voluntarily renounced the 
material world. 
So Mr Naryan sat and drank tea with her, and ate a dozen of the delicious 
honeyed fritters, one after the other, and listened to more of her wild tales of 
travelling the river, realising how little she understood of Confluence's 
administration. She was convinced that the Shaped were somehow forbidden 
technology, for instance, and did not understand why there was no government. 
Was Dreen the absolute ruler? By what right? 
"Dreen is merely the Commissioner. Any authority he has is invested in him by 
the citizens, and it is manifest only on high days. He enjoys parades, you know. 
I suppose the magistrates have power, in that they arbitrate neighbourly 
disputes and decide upon punishment -- Senschians are argumentative, and 
sometimes quarrels can lead to unfortunate accidents." 
"Murder, you mean? Then perhaps they are not as innocent as you maintain." Angel 
reached out suddenly. "And these? By what authority do these little spies 
operate?" 
Pinched between her thumb and forefinger was a bronze machine. Its sensor 
cluster turned back and forth as it struggled to free itself. 
"Why, they are part of the maintenance system of Confluence." 
"Can Dreen use them? Tell me all you know. It may be important." 
She questioned Mr Naryan closely, and he found himself telling her more than he 
wanted. But despite all that he told her, she would not talk about her voyage, 
nor of why she had escaped from the ship, or how. In the days that followed, Mr 
Naryan requested several times, politely and wistfully, that she would. He even 
visited the temple and petitioned for information about her voyage, but all 
trace of it had been lost in the vast sifting of history, and when pressed, the 
librarian who had come at the hierodule's bidding broke contact with an almost 
petulant abruptness. 
Mr Naryan was not surprised that it could tell him nothing. The voyage must have 
begun five million years ago at least, after all, for the ship to have travelled 
all the way to the neighbouring galaxy and back. 
He did learn that the ship had tried to sell its findings on landfall, much as a 
merchant would sell his wares. Perhaps Angel wanted to profit from what she 
knew; perhaps that was why the ship wanted her back, although there was no 
agency on Confluence that would close such a deal. Knowledge was worth only the 
small price of petitioning those librarians which deal with the secular world. 
Meanwhile, a group of citizens gathered around Angel, like disciples around one 
of the blessed who, touched by some fragment or other of the Preservers, wander 
Confluence's long shore. These disciples went wherever she went. They were all 
young men, which seemed to Mr Naryan faintly sinister, sons of her benefactors 
fallen under her spell. He recognised several of them, but none would speak to 
him, although there were always at least two or three accompanying Angel. They 
wore white headbands on which Angel had lettered a slogan in an archaic script 
older than any race of the Shaped; she refused to explain what it meant. 
Mr Naryan's wife thought that he, too, was falling under some kind of spell. She 
did not like the idea of Angel: she declared that Angel must be some kind of 
ghost, and therefore dangerous. Perhaps she was right. She was a wise and 
strong-willed woman, and Mr Naryan had grown to trust her advice. 
Certainly, Mr Naryan believed that he could detect a change in the steady song 
of the city as he went about his business. He listened to an old man dying of 
the systematic organ failure which took most of the citizens in the middle of 
their fourth century. The man was one of the few who had left the city -- he had 
travelled upriver, as far as a city tunneled through cliffs overlooking the 
river, where an amphibious race lived. His story took a whole day to tell, in a 
stiflingly hot room muffled in dusty carpets and lit only by a lamp with a 
blood-red chimney. At the end, the old man began to weep, saying that he knew 
now that he had not travelled at all, and Mr Naryan was unable to comfort him. 
Two children were born on the next day -- an event so rare that the whole city 
celebrated, garlanding the streets with fragrant orange blossoms. But there was 
a tension beneath the celebrations that Mr Naryan had never before felt, and it 
seemed that Angel's followers were everywhere amongst the revellers. 
Dreen felt the change, too. "There have been incidents," he said, as candid an 
admission as he had ever made to Mr Naryan. "Nothing very much. A temple wall 
defaced with the slogan the woman has her followers wear. A market disrupted by 
young men running through it, overturning stalls. I asked the magistrates not to 
make examples of the perpetrators -- that would create martyrs. Let the people 
hold their own courts if they wish. And she's been making speeches. Would you 
like to hear one?" 
"Is it necessary?" 
Dreen dropped his glass with a careless gesture -- a machine caught it and bore 
it off before it smashed on the tiles. They were on a balcony of Dreen's 
floating habitat, looking out over the Great River towards the far side of the 
world. At the horizon was the long white double line that marked the river's 
fall: the rapids below, the permanent clouds above. It was noon, and the white, 
sunlit city was quiet. 
Dreen said, "You listen to so much of her talk, I suppose you are wearied of it. 
In summary, it is nothing but some vague nonsense about destiny, about rising 
above circumstances and bettering yourself, as if you could lift yourself into 
the air by grasping the soles of your feet." 
Dreen dismissed this with a snap of his fingers. His own feet, as always, were 
bare, and his long opposable toes were curled around the bar of the rail on 
which he squatted. He said, "Perhaps she wants to rule the city -- if it pleases 
her, why not? At least, until the ship arrives here. I will not stop her if that 
is what she wants, and if she can do it. Do you know where she is right now?" 
"I have been busy." But Mr Naryan felt an eager curiosity: yes, his wife was 
right. 
"I heard the story you gathered in. At the time, you know, I thought that man 
might bring war to the city when he came back." Dreen's laugh was a high-pitched 
hooting. "The woman is out there, at the edge of the world. She took a boat 
yesterday." 
"I am sure she will return," Mr Naryan said. "It is all of a pattern." 
"I defer to your knowledge. Will hers be an interesting story, Mr Naryan? Have 
another drink. Stay, enjoy yourself." 
Dreen reached up and swung into the branches of the flame tree which leaned over 
the balcony, disappearing in a flurry of red leaves and leaving Mr Naryan to 
find a machine that was able to take him home. 
Mr Naryan thought that Dreen was wrong to dismiss what Angel was doing, although 
he understood why Dreen affected such a grand indifference. It was outside 
Dreen's experience, that was all: Angel was outside the experience of everyone 
on Confluence. The Change Wars that flared here and there along Confluence's 
vast length were not ideological but eschatological. They were a result of 
sociological stresses that arose when radical shifts in the expression of 
clusters of native and grafted genes caused a species of Shaped to undergo a 
catastrophic redefinition of its perceptions of the world. But what Angel was 
doing dated from before the Preservers had raised up the Shaped and ended human 
history. Mr Naryan only began to understood it himself when Angel told him what 
she had done at the edge of the world. 



And later, on the terrible night when the ship arrives and every machine in the 
city dies, with flames roaring unchecked through the farside quarter of the city 
and thousands of citizens fleeing into the orchard forests, Mr Naryan realises 
that he has not understood as much as he thought. Angel has not been preaching 
empty revolution after all. 
Her acolytes, all young men, are armed with crude wooden spears with 
fire-hardened tips, long double-edged knives of the kind coconut sellers use to 
open their wares, flails improvised from chains and wire. They hustle Mr Naryan 
in a forced march towards the palace and Dreen's floating habitat. They have 
taken away Mr Naryan's cane, and his bad leg hurts abominably with every other 
step. 
Angel is gone. She has work elsewhere. Mr Naryan felt fear when he saw her, but 
feels more fear now. The reflex altruism of the acolytes has been overridden by 
a new meme forged in the fires of Angel's revolution -- they jostle Mr Naryan 
with rough humour, sure in their hold over him. One in particular, the rough 
skin of his long-jawed face crazed in diamonds, jabs Mr Naryan in his ribs with 
the butt of his spear at every intersection, as if to remind him not to escape, 
something that Mr Naryan has absolutely no intention of doing. 
Power is down all over the city -- it went off with the fall of the machines -- 
but leaping light from scattered fires swims in the wide eyes of the young men. 
They pass through a market square where people swig beer and drunkenly gamble 
amongst overturned stalls. Elsewhere in the fiery dark there is open rutting, 
men with men as well as with women. A child lies dead in a gutter. Horrible, 
horrible. Once, a building collapses inside its own fire, sending flames 
whirling high into the black sky. The faces of all the men surrounding Mr Naryan 
are transformed by this leaping light into masks with eyes of flame. 
Mr Naryan's captors urge him on. His only comfort is that he will be of use in 
what is to come. Angel has not yet finished with him. 



When Angel returned from the edge of the world, she came straight away to Mr 
Naryan. It was a warm evening, at the hour after sunset when the streets began 
to fill with strollers, the murmur of neighbour greeting neighbour, the cries of 
vendors selling fruit juice or popcorn or sweet cakes. 
Mr Naryan was listening as his pupil, the magistrate's son, read a passage from 
the Puranas which described the time when the Preservers had strung the Galaxy 
with their creations. The boy was tall and awkward and faintly resentful, for he 
was not the scholar his father wished him to be and would rather spend his 
evenings with his fellows in the beer halls than read ancient legends in a long 
dead language. He bent over the book like a night stork, his finger stabbing at 
each line as he clumsily translated it, mangling words in his hoarse voice. Mr 
Naryan was listening with half an ear, interrupting only to correct particularly 
inelegant phrases. In the kitchen at the far end of the little apartment, his 
wife was humming to the murmur of the radio, her voice a breathy contented 
monotone. 
Angel came up the helical stair with a rapid clatter, mounting quickly above a 
sudden hush in the street. Mr Naryan knew who it was even before she burst onto 
the balcony. Her appearance so astonished the magistrate's son that he dropped 
the book. Mr Naryan dismissed him and he hurried away, no doubt eager to meet 
his friends in the flickering neon of the beer hall and tell them of this 
wonder. 
"I've been to the edge of the world," Angel said to Mr Naryan, coolly accepting 
a bowl of tea from Mr Naryan's wife, quite oblivious of the glance she exchanged 
with her husband before retreating. Mr Naryan's heart turned at that look, for 
in it he saw how his wife's hard words were so easily dissolved in the weltering 
sea of reflexive benevolence. How cruel the Preservers had been, it seemed to 
him never crueller, to have raised up races of the Shaped and yet to have 
shackled them in unthinking obedience. 
Angel said, "You don't seem surprised." 
"Dreen told me as much. I am pleased to see you returned safely. It has been a 
dry time without you." Already he had said too much: it was as if all his 
thoughts were eager to be spilled before her. 
"Dreen knows everything that goes on in the city." 
"Oh no, not at all. He knows what he needs to know." 
"I took a boat," Angel said. "I just asked for it, and the man took me right 
along, without question. I wish now I'd stolen it. It would have been simpler. 
I'm tired of all this good will." 
It was as if she could read his mind. For the first time, Mr Naryan began to be 
afraid, a shiver like the first shake of a tambour that had ritually introduced 
the tempestuous dances of his youth. 
Angel sat on the stool which the student had quit, tipping it back so she could 
lean against the rail of the balcony. She had cut her black hair short, and 
bound around her forehead a strip of white cloth printed with the slogan, in 
ancient incomprehensible script, that was the badge of her acolytes. She wore an 
ordinary loose white shirt and much jewelry: rings on every finger, sometimes 
more than one on each; bracelets and bangles down her forearms; gold and silver 
chains around her neck, layered on her breast. She was both graceful and 
terrifying, a rough beast slouched from the deep past to claim the world. 
She said, teasingly, "Don't you want to hear my story? Isn't that your 
avocation?" 
"I will listen to anything you want to tell me," Mr Naryan said. 
"The world is a straight line. Do you know about libration?" 
Mr Naryan shook his head. 
Angel held out her hand, tipped it back and forth. "This is the world. 
Everything lives on the back of a long flat plate which circles the sun. The 
plate rocks on its long axis, so the sun rises above the edge and then reverses 
its course. I went to the edge of the world, where the river that runs down half 
its length falls into the void. I suppose it must be collected and 
redistributed, but it really does look like it falls away forever." 
"The river is eternally renewed," Mr Naryan said. "Where it falls is where ships 
used to arrive and depart, but this city has not been a port for many years." 
"Fortunately for me, or my companions would already be here. There's a narrow 
ribbon of land on the far side of the river. Nothing lives there, not even an 
insect. No earth, no stones. The air shakes with the sound of the river's fall, 
and swirling mist burns with raw sunlight. And there are shrines, in the thunder 
and mist at the edge of the world. One spoke to me." 
Mr Naryan knew these shrines, although he had not been there for many years. He 
remembered that the different races of the Shaped had erected shrines all along 
the edge of the world, stone upon stone carried across the river, from which 
flags and long banners flew. Long ago, the original founders of the city of 
Sensch, Dreen's ancestors, had travelled across the river to petition the 
avatars of the Preservers, believing that the journey across the wide river was 
a necessary rite of purification. But they were gone, and the new citizens, who 
had built their city of stones over the burnt groves of the old city, simply 
bathed in the heated, mineral-heavy water of the pools of the shrines of the 
temple at the edge of their city before delivering their petitions. He supposed 
the proud flags and banners of the shrines would be tattered rags now, bleached 
by unfiltered sunlight, rotted by mist. The screens of the shrines -- would they 
still be working? 
Angel grinned. Mr Naryan had to remember that it was not, as it was with the 
citizens, a baring of teeth before striking. 
She said, "Don't you want to know what it said to me? It's part of my story." 
"Do you want to tell me?" 
She passed her hand over the top of her narrow skull: bristly hair made a crisp 
sound under her palm. "No," she said. "No, I don't think I do. Not yet." 
Later, after a span of silence, just before she left, she said, "After we were 
wakened by the ship, after it brought us here, it showed us how the black hole 
you call the Eye of the Preservers was made. It recorded the process as it 
returned, speeded up because the ship was travelling so fast it stretched time 
around itself. At first there was an intense point of light within the heart of 
the Large Magellanic Cloud. It might have been a supernova, except that it was a 
thousand times larger than any supernova ever recorded. For a long time its 
glare obscured everything else, and when it cleared, all the remaining stars 
were streaming around where it had been. Those nearest the centre elongated and 
dissipated, and always more crowded in until nothing was left but the gas clouds 
of the accretion disc, glowing by Cerenkov radiation." 
"So it is written in the Puranas." 
"And is it also written there why Confluence was constructed around a halo star 
between the Home Galaxy and the Eye of the Preservers?" 
"Of course. It is so we can all worship and glorify the Preservers. The Eye 
looks upon us all." 
"That's what I told them," Angel said. 
After she was gone, Mr Naryan put on his spectacles and walked through the city 
to the docks. The unsleeping citizens were promenading in the warm dark streets, 
or squatting in doorways, or talking quietly from upper storey windows to their 
neighbours across the street. Amongst this easy somnolence, Angel's young 
disciples moved with a quick purposefulness, here in pairs, there in a group of 
twenty or more. Their slogans were painted on almost every wall. Three stopped 
Mr Naryan near the docks, danced around his bulk, jeering, then ran off, 
screeching with laughter, when he slashed at them with his cane. 
"Ruffians! Fools!" 
"Seize the day!" they sang back. "Seize the day!" 
Mr Naryan did not find the man whose skiff Angel and her followers had used to 
cross the river, but the story was already everywhere amongst the fisherfolk. 
The Preservers had spoken to her, they said, and she had refused their 
temptations. Many were busily bargaining with citizens who wanted to cross the 
river and see the site of this miracle for themselves. 
An old man, eyes milky with cataracts -- the fisherfolk trawled widely across 
the Great River, exposing themselves to more radiation than normal -- asked Mr 
Naryan if these were the end times, if the Preservers would return to walk 
amongst them again. When Mr Naryan said, no, anyone who had dealt with the 
avatars knew that only those fragments remained in the Universe, the old man 
shrugged and said, "They say she is a Preserver," and Mr Naryan, looking out 
across the river's black welter, where the horizon was lost against the empty 
night, seeing the scattered constellations of the running lights of the 
fisherfolk's skiffs scattered out to the farside, knew that the end of Angel's 
story was not far off. The citizens were finding their use for her. Inexorably, 
step by step, she was becoming part of their history. 
Mr Naryan did not see Angel again until the night her ship arrived. Dreen went 
to treat with her, but he could not get within two streets of her house: it had 
become the centre of a convocation that took over the entire quarter of the 
city. She preached to thousands of citizens from the rooftops. 
Dreen reported to Mr Naryan that it was a philosophy of hope from despair. "She 
says that all life feeds on destruction and death. Are you sure you don't want 
to hear it?" 
"It is not necessary." 
Dreen was perched on a balustrade, looking out at the river. They were in his 
floating habitat, in an arbour of lemon trees that jutted out at its leading 
edge. He said, "More than a thousand a day are making the crossing." 
"Has the screen spoken again?" 
"I've monitored it continuously. Nothing." 
"But it did speak with her." 
"Perhaps, perhaps." Dreen was suddenly agitated. He scampered up and down the 
narrow balustrade, swiping at overhanging branches and scaring the white doves 
that perched amongst the little glossy leaves. The birds rocketed up in a great 
flutter of wings, crying as they rose into the empty sky. Dreen said, "The 
machines watching her don't work. Not any more. She's found out how to disrupt 
them. I snatch long range pictures, but they don't tell me very much. I don't 
even know if she visited the shrine in the first place." 
"I believe her," Mr Naryan said. 
"I petitioned the avatars," Dreen said, "but of course they wouldn't tell me if 
they'd spoken to her." 
Mr Naryan was disturbed by this admission -- Dreen was not a religious man. 
"What will you do?" 
"Nothing. I could send the magistrates for her, but even if she went with them 
her followers would claim she'd been arrested. And I can't even remember when I 
last arrested someone. It would make her even more powerful, and I'd have to let 
her go. But I suppose that you are going to tell me that I should let it 
happen." 
"It has happened before. Even here, to your own people. They built the shrines, 
after all...." 
"Yes, and later they fell from grace, and destroyed their city. The snakes 
aren't ready for that," Dreen said, almost pleading, and for a moment Mr Naryan 
glimpsed the depth of Dreen's love for this city and its people. 
Dreen turned away, as if ashamed, to look out at the river again, at the 
flocking sails of little boats setting out on, or returning from, the long 
crossing to the far side of the river. This great pilgrimage had become the 
focus of the life of the city. The markets were closed for the most part; 
merchants had moved to the docks to supply the thousands of pilgrims. 
Dreen said, "They say that the avatar tempted her with godhead, and she denied 
it." 
"But that is foolish! The days of the Preservers have long ago faded. We know 
them only by their image, which burns forever at the event horizon, but their 
essence has long since receded." 
Dreen shrugged. "There's worse. They say that she forced the avatar to admit 
that the Preservers are dead. They say that she is an avatar of something 
greater than the Preservers, although you wouldn't know that from her preaching. 
She claims that this universe is all there is, that destiny is what you make it. 
What makes me despair is how readily the snakes believe this cant." 
Mr Naryan, feeling chill, there in the sun-dappled shade, said, "She has hinted 
to me that she learnt it in the great far out, in the galaxy beyond the Home 
Galaxy." 
"The ship is coming," Dreen said. "Perhaps they will deal with her." 



In the burning night of the city's dissolution, Mr Naryan is brought at last to 
the pink sandstone palace. Dreen's habitat floats above it, a black cloud that 
half-eclipses the glowering red swirl of the Eye of the Preservers. Trails of 
white smoke, made luminescent by the fires which feed them, pour from the 
palace's high arched windows, braiding into sheets which dash like surf against 
the rim of the habitat. Mr Naryan sees something fly up from amongst the 
palace's many carved spires -- there seem to be more of them than he remembers 
-- and smash away a piece of the habitat, which slowly tumbles off into the 
black sky. 
The men around him hoot and cheer at this, and catch Mr Naryan's arms and march 
him up the broad steps and through the high double doors into the courtyard 
beyond. It is piled with furniture and tapestries that have been thrown down 
from the thousand high windows overlooking it, but a path has been cleared to a 
narrow stair that turns and turns as it rises, until at last Mr Naryan is pushed 
out onto the roof of the palace. 
Perhaps five hundred of Angel's followers crowd amongst the spires and fallen 
trees and rocks, many naked, all with lettered headbands tied around their 
foreheads. Smoky torches blaze everywhere. In the centre of the crowd is the 
palace's great throne on which, on high days and holidays, at the beginning of 
masques or parades, Dreen receives the city's priests, merchants and artists. It 
is lit by a crown of machines burning bright as the sun, and seated on it -- 
easy, elegant and terrifying -- is Angel. 
Mr Naryan is led through the crowd and left standing alone before the throne. 
Angel beckons him forward, her smile both triumphant and scared: Mr Naryan feels 
her fear mix with his own. 
She says, "What should I do with your city, now I've taken it from you?" 
"You have not finished your story." Everything Mr Naryan planned to say has 
fallen away at the simple fact of her presence. Stranded before her fierce, 
barely contained energies, he feels old and used up, his body as heavy with 
years and regret as with fat. He adds cautiously, "I would like to hear it all." 

He wonders if she really knows how her story must end. Perhaps she does. Perhaps 
her wild joy is not at her triumph, but at the imminence of her death. Perhaps 
she really does believe that the void is all, and rushes to embrace it. 
Angel says, "My people can tell you. They hide with Dreen up above, but not for 
long." 
She points across the roof. A dozen men are wrestling a sled, which shudders 
like a living thing as it tries to reorientate itself in the gravity field, onto 
a kind of launching cradle tipped up towards the habitat. The edges of the 
habitat are ragged, as if bitten, and amongst the roof's spires tower-trees are 
visibly growing towards it, their tips already brushing its edges, their tangled 
bases pulsing and swelling as teams of men and women drench them with nutrients. 

"I found how to enhance the antigravity devices of the sleds," Angel says. "They 
react against the field which generates gravity for this artificial world. The 
field's stored inertia gives them a high kinetic energy, so that they make very 
good missiles. We'll chip away that floating fortress piece by piece if we have 
to, or we'll finish growing towers and storm its remains, but I expect surrender 
long before then." 
"Dreen is not the ruler of the city." Nor are you, Mr Naryan thinks, but it is 
not prudent to point that out. 
"Not any more," Angel says. 
Mr Naryan dares to step closer. He says, "What did you find out there, that you 
rage against?" 
Angel laughs. "I'll tell you about rage. It is what you have all forgotten, or 
never learned. It is the motor of evolution, and evolution's end, too." She 
snatches a beaker of wine from a supplicant, drains it and tosses it aside. She 
is consumed with an energy that is no longer her own. She says, "We travelled so 
long, not dead, not sleeping. We were no more than stored potentials triply 
engraved on gold. Although the ship flew so fast that it bound time about 
itself, the journey still took thousands of years of slowed ship-board time. At 
the end of that long voyage we did not wake: we were born. Or rather, others 
like us were born, although I have their memories, as if they are my own. They 
learned then that the Universe was not made for the convenience of humans. What 
they found was a galaxy ruined and dead." 
She holds Mr Naryan's hand tightly, speaking quietly and intensely, her eyes 
staring deep into his. 
"A billion years ago, our neighbouring galaxy collided with another, much 
smaller galaxy. Stars of both galaxies were torn off in the collision, and 
scattered in a vast halo. The rest coalesced into a single body, but except for 
ancient globular clusters, which survived the catastrophe because of their dense 
gravity fields, it is all wreckage. We were not able to chart a single world 
where life had evolved. I remember standing on a world sheared in half by 
immense tidal stress, its orbit so eccentric that it was colder than Pluto at 
its farthest point, hotter than Mercury at its nearest. I remember standing on a 
world of methane ice as cold and dark as the Universe itself, wandering amongst 
the stars. There were millions of such worlds cast adrift. I remember standing 
upon a fragment of a world smashed into a million shards and scattered so widely 
in its orbit that it never had the chance to reform. There are a million such 
worlds. I remember gas giants turned inside out -- single vast storms -- and I 
remember worlds torched smooth by eruptions of their stars. No life, anywhere. 
"Do you know how many galaxies have endured such collisions? Almost all of them. 
Life is a statistical freak. It is likely that only the stars of our galaxy have 
planets, or else other civilisations would surely have arisen elsewhere in the 
unbounded Universe. As it is, it is certain that we are alone. We must make of 
ourselves what we can. We should not hide, as your Preservers chose to do. 
Instead, we should seize the day, and make the Universe over with the technology 
that the Preservers used to make their hiding place." 
Her grip is hurting now, but Mr Naryan bears it. "You cannot become a 
Preserver," he says sadly. "No one can, now. You should not lie to these 
innocent people." 
"I didn't need to lie. They took up my story and made it theirs. They see now 
what they can inherit -- if they dare. This won't stop with one city. It will 
become a crusade!" She adds, more softly, "You'll remember it all, won't you?" 
It is then that Mr Naryan knows that she knows how this must end, and his heart 
breaks. He would ask her to take that burden from him, but he cannot. He is 
bound to her. He is her witness. 
The crowd around them cheers as the sled rockets up from its cradle. It smashes 
into the habitat and knocks loose another piece, which drops trees and dirt and 
rocks amongst the spires of the palace roof as it twists free and spins away 
into the night. 
Figures appear at the edge of the habitat. A small tube falls, glittering 
through the torchlight. A man catches it, runs across the debris-strewn roof, 
and throws himself at Angel's feet. He is at the far end of the human scale of 
the Shaped of this city. His skin is lapped with distinct scales, edged with a 
rim of hard black like the scales of a pine cone. His coarse black hair has 
flopped over his eyes, which glow like coals with reflected firelight. 
Angel takes the tube and shakes it. It unrolls into a flexible sheet on which 
Dreen's face glows. Dreen's lips move; his voice is small and metallic. Angel 
listens intently, and when he has finished speaking says softly, "Yes." 
Then she stands and raises both hands above her head. All across the roof, men 
and women turn towards her, eyes glowing. 
"They wish to surrender! Let them come down!" 
A moment later a sled swoops down from the habitat, its silvery underside 
gleaming in the reflected light of the many fires scattered across the roof. 
Angel's followers shout and jeer, and missiles fly out of the darkness -- a 
burning torch, a rock, a broken branch. All are somehow deflected before they 
reach the ship's crew, screaming away into the dark with such force that the 
torch, the branch, kindle into white fire. The crew have modified the sled's 
field to protect themselves. 
They all look like Angel, with the same small sleek head, the same gangling 
build and abrupt nervous movements. Dreen's slight figure is dwarfed by them. It 
takes Mr Naryan a long minute to be able to distinguish men from women, and 
another to be able to tell each man from his brothers, each woman from her 
sisters. They are all clad in long white shirts that leave them bare-armed and 
bare-legged, and each is girdled with a belt from which hang a dozen or more 
little machines. They call to Angel, one following on the words of the other, 
saying over and over again: 
"Return with us--" 
"--this is not our place--" 
"--these are not our people--" 
"--we will return--" 
"--we will find our home--" 
"--leave with us and return." 
Dreen sees Mr Naryan and shouts, "They want to take her back!" He jumps down 
from the sled, an act of bravery that astonishes Mr Naryan, and skips through 
the crowd. "They are all one person, or variations on one person," he says 
breathlessly. "The ship makes its crew by varying a template. Angel is an 
extreme. A mistake." 
Angel starts to laugh. 
"You funny little man! I'm the real one -- they are the copies!" 
"Come back to us--" 
"--come back and help us--" 
"--help us find our home." 
"There's no home to find!" Angel shouts. "Oh, you fools! This is all there is!" 
"I tried to explain to them," Dreen says to Mr Naryan, "but they wouldn't 
listen." 
"They surely cannot disbelieve the Puranas," Mr Naryan says. 
Angel shouts, "Give me back the ship!" 
"It was never yours--" 
"--never yours to own--" 
"--but only yours to serve." 
"No! I won't serve!" Angel jumps onto the throne and makes an abrupt cutting 
gesture. 
Hundreds of fine silver threads spool out of the darkness, shooting towards the 
sled and her crewmates. The ends of the threads flick up when they reach the 
edge of the sled's modified field, but then fall in a tangle over the crew: 
their shield is gone. 
The crowd begins to throw things again, but Angel orders them to be still. "I 
have the only working sled," she says. "That which I enhance, I can also take 
away. Come with me," she tells Mr Naryan, "and see the end of my story." 
The crowd around Angel stirs. Mr Naryan turns, and sees one of the crew walking 
towards Angel. 
He is as tall and slender as Angel, his small high-cheekboned face so like her 
own it is as if he holds up a mirror as he approaches. A rock arcs out of the 
crowd and strikes his shoulder: he staggers but walks on, hardly seeming to 
notice that the crowd closes at his back so that he is suddenly inside its 
circle, with Angel and Mr Naryan in its focus. 
Angel says, "I'm not afraid of you." 
"Of course not, sister," the man says. And he grasps her wrists in both his 
hands. 
Then Mr Naryan is on his hands and knees. A strong wind howls about him, and he 
can hear people screaming. The afterglow of a great light swims in his vision. 
He cannot see who helps him up and half-carries him through the stunned crowd to 
the sled. 
When the sled starts to rise, Mr Naryan falls to his knees again. Dreen says in 
his ear, "It's over." 
"No," Mr Naryan says. He blinks and blinks, tears rolling down his cheeks. 
The man took Angel's wrists in both of his -- 
Dreen is saying something, but Mr Naryan shakes his head. It is not over. 
-- and they shot up into the night, so fast that their clothing burst into 
flame, so fast that air was drawn up with them. If Angel could nullify the 
gravity field, then so could her crewmates. She has achieved apotheosis. 
The sled swoops up the tiered slope of the ship, is swallowed by a wide hatch. 
When he can see again, Mr Naryan finds himself kneeling at the edge of the open 
hatch. The city is spread below. Fires define the streets which radiate away 
from the Great River; the warm night air is bitter with the smell of burning. 
Dreen has been looking at the lighted windows that crowd the walls of the vast 
room beyond the hatch, scampering with growing excitement from one to the other. 
Now he sees that Mr Naryan is crying, and clumsily tries to comfort him, 
believing that Mr Naryan is mourning his wife, left behind in the dying city. 
"She was a good woman, for her kind," Mr Naryan is able to say at last, although 
it is not her he is mourning, or not only her. He is mourning for all of the 
citizens of Sensch. They are irrevocably caught in their change now, never to be 
the same. His wife, the nut roaster, the men and woman who own the little tea 
houses at the corner of every square, the children, the mendicants and the 
merchants -- all are changed, or else dying in the process. Something new is 
being born down there. Rising from the fall of the city. 
"They'll take us away from all this," Dreen says happily. "They're going to 
search for where they came from. Some are out combing the city for others who 
can help them; the rest are preparing the ship. They'll take it over the edge of 
the world, into the great far out!" 
"Do they not know they will never find what they are looking for? The Puranas--" 

"Old stories, old fears. They will take us home!" 
Mr Naryan laboriously clambers to his feet. He understands that Dreen has fallen 
under the thrall of the crew. He is theirs, as Mr Naryan is now and forever 
Angel's. He says, "Those times are past. Down there in the city is the beginning 
of something new, something wonderful--" He finds he cannot explain. All he has 
is his faith that it won't stop here. It is not an end but a beginning, a spark 
to set all of Confluence -- the unfallen and the changed -- alight. Mr Naryan 
says, weakly, "It will not stop here." 
Dreen's big eyes shine in the light of the city's fires. He says, "I see only 
another Change War. There's nothing new in that. The snakes will rebuild the 
city in their new image, if not here, then somewhere else along the Great River. 
It has happened before, in this very place, to my own people. We survived it, 
and so will the snakes. But what they promise is so much greater! We'll leave 
this poor place, and voyage out to return to where it all began, to the very 
home of the Preservers. Look there! That's where we're going!" 
Mr Naryan allows himself to be led across the vast room. It is so big that it 
could easily hold Dreen's floating habitat. A window on its far side shows a 
view angled somewhere far above the plane of Confluence's orbit. Confluence 
itself is a shining strip, an arrow running out to its own vanishing point. 
Beyond that point are the ordered, frozen spirals of the Home Galaxy, the great 
jewelled clusters and braids of stars constructed in the last great days of the 
Preservers before they vanished forever into the black hole they made by 
collapsing the Magellanic Cloud. 
Mr Naryan starts to breathe deeply, topping up the oxygen content of his blood. 
"You see!" Dreen says again, his face shining with awe in Confluence's silver 
light. 
"I see the end of history," Mr Naryan says. "You should have studied the 
Puranas, Dreen. There is no future to be found amongst the artifacts of the 
Preservers, only the dead past. I won't serve, Dreen. That's over." 
And then he turns and lumbers through the false lights and shadows of the 
windows towards the open hatch. Dreen catches his arm, but Mr Naryan throws him 
off. 
Dreen sprawls on his back, astonished, then jumps up and runs in front of Mr 
Naryan. "You fool!" he shouts. "They can bring her back!" 
"There's no need," Mr Naryan says, and pushes Dreen out of the way and plunges 
straight out of the hatch. 
He falls through black air like a heavy comet. Water smashes around him, tears 
away his clothes. His nostrils pinch shut and membranes slide across his eyes as 
he plunges down and down amidst streaming bubbles until the roaring in his ears 
is no longer the roar of his blood but the roar of the river's never-ending fall 
over the edge of the world. 
Deep, silty currents begin to pull him towards that edge. He turns in the water 
and begins to swim away from it, away from the ship and the burning city. His 
duty is over: once they have taken charge of their destiny, the changed citizens 
will no longer need an Archivist. 
Mr Naryan swims more and more easily. The swift cold water washes away his 
landbound habits, wakes the powerful muscles of his shoulders and back. Angel's 
message burns bright, burning away the old stories, as he swims through the 
black water, against the currents of the Great River. Joy gathers with every 
thrust of his arms. He is the messenger, Angel's witness. He will travel ahead 
of the crusade that will begin when everyone in Sensch is changed. It will be a 
long and difficult journey, but he does not doubt that his destiny -- the 
beginning of the future that Angel has bequeathed him and all of Confluence -- 
lies at the end of it. 



Afterword 
This story began with an invitation from Greg Bear, who asked if I would 
consider writing something for an anthology of original stories concerned with 
the central themes of SF. Naturally, I was flattered; more importantly, it 
forced me to consider just what the central themes of SF are. It seems to me 
that every SF writer has a different set, just as every writer probably has a 
different working definition of SF itself (which is, perhaps, why we can never 
agree on a definition). This story suggests that my own themes -- or, if you 
like, obsessions -- are aliens, the far future (which is to say a future in 
which our own time is invisibly distant), cosmology, messiahs, and what Roz 
Kavney has labelled Big Dumb Objects. Certainly, readers of Eternal Light or Red 
Dust may find echoes of the themes of those two novels in this clash between the 
Hindu and Christian mythologies on a Big Dumb Object orbiting a manufactured 
black hole beyond a Galaxy so rich in ten million years or more of human history 
that the orbits of every star have been altered. 
It is a story that takes seriously Frank Tipler's hypothesis, explained in 
detail in his The Physics of Immortality, that in the unimaginably far future 
the entire Universe will have been re-engineered so radically that it will have 
become a substrate for a collective intelligence that will be as omniscient as 
God. Indeed, the Universe will be God, a God of the end times rather than of 
creation, and we and everything that has ever lived will be recreated as a 
trivial but necessary exercise. The Preservers of this story are not that God, 
although it is possible that they are of God. 



© Paul J McAuley 1995, 2000. 
This story first appeared in New Legends, edited by Greg Bear and Martin H 
Greenberg (Tor, 1995). It has since been reprinted in: The Year's Best Science 
Fiction, Thirteenth Annual Collection, edited by Gardner Dozois; Tales in Space, 
edited by Peter Crowther; and in Paul's collection, The Invisible Country.



Elsewhere in infinity plus: 
  fiction - 17; and Inheritance. 
  nonfiction - Paul J McAuley interviewed by Nick Gevers; reviews of Pasquale's 
  Angel and Eternal Light. 
  features - about the author. 
Elsewhere on the web: 
  Paul J McAuley at Amazon (US) and at the Internet Bookshop (UK). 
  The ISFA site features a profile of Paul. 
  Another profile and bibliography can be found in the Anachron City Library. 
  Find out what readers think of Paul's work with these reviews. 
  ISFD bibliography. 



Let us know what you think of infinity plus - e-mail us at:
sf@iplus.zetnet.co.uk 


support this site - buy books through these links:
A+ Books: an insider's view of sf, fantasy and horror
amazon.com (US) | Internet Bookshop (UK) 
top of page
[ home page | frame-free home page ]
[ fiction | non-fiction | other stuff | A to Z ] 
[ infinity plus bookshop | search infinity plus ]