Things come back.

  Even the small glasses of liquor she sipped seemed to return, an endless round of small amounts of orange liquid disappearing inside her.

  She was no better off. The alcohol gave her a tingling sensation, the feeling that her skin was vibrating. That was all. If she really wanted to get dizzy and lost, there was another system...

  We are trapped in a chain, a merry-go-round, she thought.

  The decision is yours alone, but it has already been made.

  How was she to understand this? Was the possibility of choice an illusion, endlessly repeated? Or did the fact that they were condemned by unjust higher forces to repeat the same story endlessly not really nullify their hopes, desires, and choices?

  Like characters in a story repeating themselves over and over again... Did it mean that they were all puppets? Or that the story was repeated as a replicated show, always identical only because the premises were identical?

  There was a place where they could have answered her. They could have, but it wouldn't happen. One would leave that place with an unsettled mind and suffer the consequences in the long run.

  A louder clatter of dishes made her look up from the floor. She didn't see the cause, but she didn't care; the whole place might as well fall apart. Down the drain. It was almost empty anyway. The remaining customers were insane and ignorant. She hoped that Luoth would at least send her a greeting before he disappeared forever.

  One thing she would have done before leaving would have been to smash the petulant cubic device that babbled incessant nonsense instead of playing soothing music.

  “Will our unfortunate Zerafian friends get a second chance? Experts are optimistic. The relic entrusted to us, which they now call the 'Casket of Life,' was promptly shipped to the northern lands, accompanied by an expedition of expert biologists...”.

  That will not be coming back, she added. Will they still be able to get paid?

  “The University of Maccovi is ready to receive the team. Their joint mission will be to find a suitable new place to implant the spores. The Maccovians say they are convinced that they can recreate the right environment in one of the immense caves that penetrate Mount Pano from one side to side.”

  All right, this was no nonsense. On the contrary, it was an event of historical significance, both from a scientific point of view and as a constructive action to help another threatened civilization. But even this wonderful news was trivialized, treated superficially by the radio people, told in a stupidly excited voice like a funny barroom story.

  The same thing happened with the news bulletins posted in the streets. It was a great advance to be able to inform every citizen about what was going on almost in real time... but soon the billboards were filled with advertisements of people selling old carriages, giving away puppies, or offering advice about the many ways to lose weight.

  Poor Zerafians, she had suspected the worst of them. Perhaps she was wrong to think badly of her fellow citizens too.

  In the morning, Seluma had climbed up to the balcony, to the top of the Coneshell's spire. She had barely recognized the city. The normal traffic of people, vehicles, and goods had been replaced by an endless line of slow-moving caravans. Wagons laden with household goods preceded families on foot, trying to carry an impressive amount of other luggage by hand, pets scampering between their feet. From up there, she could not hear voices or sounds, except occasionally when a gust of wind brought to her ears a scrap of excited conversation, a squeak of wheels, the rumble of a heavy object being dragged.

  A large group of insect people swarmed around an elongated wagon, the little ones climbing playfully on top, waving their little paws and antennae in the air, all excited, vainly restrained by the adults. They must have thought they were about to embark on a great journey, to see the world.

  She did not like children, but she found herself hoping, just for them, that the coming cataclysm would at least spare the surface lands, that there would remain some intact place to settle and rebuild a future. For everyone else, for those who wanted it.

  With a tap, she tipped the last empty shot glass onto the bar. The thick glass cylinder rolled and came to rest on the bowl of pretzels. The automaton bartender tilted her head to look at Seluma, then reached out her brown hand to pick up the glass and straighten it. She shook her head and walked away from the bar.

  The super-waitress was gone. How many days had she been working? She could not bring herself to count; surely this could not have happened in such a short time? Only a cook and the oldest of the waiters had been left with her, at least as long as the alarm had not gone off.

  The call to leave the city had been issued in the early morning hours. Notices had been posted on every street corner, and every news program on the radio had been repeating nothing else for hours. Along with some nonsense about how the wealthy industrialists, merchants, and businessmen of Nelatte would actively participate by helping the less fortunate pack up and leave.

  She could just see them doing it.

  Sgolot entered and leaned against the door, which closed tightly behind him. The cap fell from his head.

  “Are you still here?” Seluma greeted him. “I appreciate your loyalty to my place, but you should think about getting to safety.”

  The old human pinched his snub nose hard, as if it were a foreign object attached to his face, his mouth twitching into strange grimaces. He swallowed loudly, coughed, and barely moved a wobbly step away from the door. He no longer even had his trusty cane.

  “They're coming! Let's not be seen!” he whispered, his voice unstable.

  Was he drunk already?

  “They're coming... who?”

  “The procession!”

  Sgolot stepped forward, his hands trembling. He grabbed a seat at the table closest to the exit and fell into his chair with a grunt. He explained himself with difficulty, catching his breath every third word.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “I saw them coming up behind me as soon as I got out of the tube and turned to come here... I can't go fast... And they were right behind me! I was afraid I would get swamped by those people! They would never let me go again! Then I remembered the shortcut through the laundry yard.”

  He passed a hand over his forehead in a gesture that reminded her of Luoth and made her feel nostalgic. Only then did the old man seem to notice that he no longer had his hat. He saw it lying on the ground, but did not move to pick it up.

  Seluma crawled towards it. As she lifted the headgear and turned to return it to its owner, she heard the sound of drums coming from the square.

  “Don't open, Seluma! For pity's sake!” cried Sgolot, a true cry of terror.

  She stood there, twirling the cap in the air like a magician with a plate.

  “It's the Palvi monks, praying for the Rift to spare us. They may seem a bit dark and sinister, but—”

  “It's not the Palvi!” he protested again. For emphasis, tiny droplets of saliva sprayed from his mouth. “Some are from there, but they are much worse! They have lost their minds and believe there is no hope!”

  Seluma found herself backing away despite herself, eyeing the door with suspicion.

  “They certainly don't kidnap people in houses,” she said, sounding much more doubtful than she would have liked.

  “No, but it's better not to be there when they come by. I don't want to see them again. I have seen with my own eyes how ordinary citizens, whom I thought to have common sense, have been enchanted by their litany and followed them...”

  No, she refused to believe that.

  “Desperation and fear make everyone do strange things,” she replied, finding confidence this time. She turned back to the elder to give him his hat back. “Let's not talk about mysterious magical powers, please.”

  She looked for a waiter to order something energetic for the poor old man, before remembering that she was pretty much alone in running the place. She would have to go in person and ask the cook for some herbal tea.

  Damn it, in the time it would take her to get there and back, half the neighborhood could burn down! That's why she had surrounded herself with staff, right? She should have had common sense and shut down; she sighed. But what would she do in the last hours? And where would her resigned last customers go?

  “I didn't say they were magical,” Sgolot protested. “But I've heard them sing, and those sounds tickle you all here —they rumble in your gut, make your heart dance, and you can't get away. No wonder you want to end it all so you can't hear them anymore.”

  Who had said to end it all? Seluma froze in the middle of the momentum she had given herself to propel herself forward faster, the contractions of the back of her body colliding with the solid mass of her chest, creating a shockwave that bounced painfully back.

  “I'm a coward, I know,” he added, the tremor of crying creeping into his voice. “I should do something to stop them. There are young people in there, families...”

  “What?” asked Seluma loudly. “What do you mean? Explain yourself! Where are they going?”

  The old man had collapsed. His face buried in his hands, crisscrossed with raised veins, he sobbed shamelessly, leaning forward on the coffee table.

  “Where are they going?” she insisted, punctuating the syllables. A ferret-faced woman at the bar turned in their direction, stirring the liquor in her mug and licking her thin lips.

  Sgolot released a hand to gesture with his thumb.

  “They're going down, Seluma... Down!”

  The somber, insistent drumbeats had been joined by a clang of cowbells, the hum of a vibrating foil instrument, and the murmur of a passing crowd that bore no resemblance to a ritual litany, though it had its cadenced rhythm. The timbre of the voices was wrong, the modulation of the sounds... Seluma had witnessed the processions of the sad Palvi monks many times, but never had she felt such an aura of pessimism emanating from their resigned prayers. Anxiety was a knot in her stomach.

  Or was that really the effect of the dissonant funeral music and its low frequencies?

  Ignoring the old man's warning, Seluma threw the door wide open and went outside.

  A disparate company entered the square, preceded by the unpleasant noise echoing from the alleys.

  The core of the procession was a line of individuals of various races in the anthracite-colored robes typical of Palvi monks: a mottled fur collar, white and gray, and a funnel-shaped headdress that stretched out of proportion until it ended, at least half a yard above their heads, in a skein of brown thread impregnated with a foul mixture that attracted swarms of flies. They walked with their eyes fixed forward, muttering formulas in an archaic, rhythmic language, seemingly unaware of the crowd around them, impassive as automata. Other people, supplicants, dressed instead in simple, coarse cloth tunics, surrounded the procession, groaning and shrieking, their faces distorted with grief, turned skyward. In no particular order, drummers and others moved about, shaking hollow sticks filled with gravel and vibrating foils with hooked fingers.

  As the procession passed, shadows crept into doorways, passersby ran away, dropping what they were carrying, and cats sprinted away, yowling as if their tails were on fire.

  But there were also those who stopped to watch, and in their gaze, you could sense a spark of madness ready to burst forth. One woman, standing still on the stairs that led from the street to her house, stared at the macabre procession with one fist pressed to her mouth, while with her other hand she twisted a corner of her vest, sinking her nails into it. Seluma saw her biting her fingers to keep from screaming. A man came out of the house, tried to grab her and lead her back inside, but she recoiled with a shriek, hurried down the stairs, and lingered a moment to watch what was happening in the square. A moment before the man could reach her, she had dived into the middle of the procession. Two large furry figures, holding hands, hid them from Seluma's view. Only the horrified citizen remained, fumbling on the steps and shouting a name that was completely drowned out by the insane music.

  Seluma also held back a cry when she recognized some familiar faces among the delirious supplicants. The limp one with the sweaty face, wrinkled like a fat man who had lost a lot of weight in a short time, was undoubtedly the rich Scalpi, clawing at his robe until more than one fingernail was broken against the rough, abrasive fabric. Thin trails of clotted blood stained the front of the robe. The notable walked on, drooling, eyes rolling back, moaning like an idiot. A short distance away, Dame Lapui, who had dictated fashion in the city for thirty years, lay in the same attitude. Seluma still recognized a stick man, an influential executive of the mining company and a member of the city council. And the Batracid who worked in Luoth's bank.

  The procession was as unbearable as a bad smell, and as if she had inhaled a mephitic miasma, Seluma found herself swaying dizzily. She retracted her eye-antennas, narrowed her head. She didn't want to see anymore, Sgolot was right. If she had found her friend there, too, she would have gone crazy.

  Were they going down to the lower levels? To the freight yard?

  They would have taken their time getting there, taking a long ride. Surely, they wanted to be seen by as many people as possible, to attract as many desperate people as possible to swell their ranks. She refused to speculate on their ultimate purpose.

  But she had to go; she had to understand.

  She walked along the wall until she reached the back of the Coneshell. The street beyond was deserted, though still plagued by those repulsive sounds and noises. With a quick mental calculation, she came to the conclusion that she could try to take an elevator tube from there, but that eventually she would have to make do and rely on her special physical abilities to take a shortcut.