âNasraniâweâre still droppingâshouldnât we have gotten off sooner?â
Nasrani smiled, hitched up the tail of his greatcoat to scratch his leg. Hobi swallowed. Beneath his flowing trousers the exile wore high boots of burgundy leather; and tucked neatly into a flap on each one was a stiletto of gleaming steel. âNo, no, Hobi,â he said, flicking his fingers dismissively. âThis isnât an ordinary visit. Youâll see.â
The boy shivered. It struck him that there was a good reason Nasrani Orsina had been exiled; that he was not merely the polite and epicene dinner guest his mother had been so fond of. And with a small electrical thrill of terrorâbecause of course this was something he should have considered all alongâHobi wondered just what this man was doing with him, the son of the Architect Imperator.
âShould weâmaybe we should have waited for my fatherââ he stammered.
Nasrani shook his head. He frowned, pulling at a stray thread on his greatcoat, then slid one of the stilettos from its sheath and neatly cut it off. He twisted his head, gazing at Hobi with studied casualness. âHave you ever been to the Undercity?â
Hobi felt his whole body freeze, as though he had walked into a replicantâs holding chamber. âLevel One? Angels?â
âMmm mmm,â Nasrani said absently. He glanced at the window, marbled gold and black where they passed through the refineries of Archangels. âYes, thatâs right. The Undercity.â
Hobi bit his lip, grabbing on to the edge of the bench as the gravator bucked and rolled. Near the door hung a slender golden cord with a small neatly lettered sign dangling from it. Pull in case of emergency, it said. He and his friends used to joke about it, and once Magya Electroluxe really had pulled it, with exciting results. But doing such a thing now would mean admitting to himself that in a few minutes the damned thing would stop at Level One, Angels: the Undercity. When he looked aside at Nasrani he saw that the exile was smiling. Hobi reddened. Abruptly he let go of the bench, straightened, and tossed his long hair. âOh, Iâve been there ,â he lied.
âReally?â Nasrani looked interested. âWerenât you afraid youâd be tortured or go mad?â
But before Hobi could reply (tortured?), with a sudden boom the gravator jolted and was still. In front of them the heavy metal doors were fanning open. And he had no choice, really, but to follow Nasrani Orsina into the Undercity.
The rickshaw driver slowed to a trot as they rounded the entrance to the vivariums. Ceryl could hear him panting. She shook her head; she should have engaged another before returning to this level. She was thinking of walking the rest of the way when she sighted the gynander strolling by. As the rickshaw rattled past her, Ceryl looked over her shoulder at the slender figure, her mind racing.
The dream inquisition she missed last night; her failed attempt at timoring; and most of all her nightmaresâ¦
âStop!â she ordered the driver, leaning forward until her head peeked out from the rickshawâs bamboo shell. âRight here, please, stopââ
The rickshaw slowed to a halt. The gynander continued walking, singing to herself and not even raising her head. Ceryl stumbled to her feet, tugged at the rug covering the cabâs floor, and threw it onto the bloody seat beside her as she got out.
âYouââ
The gynander stopped. For a moment Ceryl thought she had mistakenly called to a real woman. But noâthe slender figure had an elaborately painted face, small breasts emblazoned with colored whorls and waves; and through her diaphanous trousers Ceryl glimpsed her penis, no longer than a finger. Perhaps it was just that she was taller than most morphodites, and had done something to straighten her hair. She looked to be about fifteen. Ceryl knew
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