Tim Lebbon - Echo city

Her mother told her it was called a drop ship. People paid to be strapped into a metal-reinforced wooden cart, which was then hauled to the summit by means of an intricate system of pulleys, ropes, and chains. The pulling was carried out by three tusked swine, and even that process was made into an entertainment, with clowns leaping from one creature's back to another and conducting a fake swordfight with silk snakes as they went. Once the cart was at the top, the clowns paused and began a countdown. Ten… nine… eight… When they reached one, a clown threw a lever in the hauling wheel's hub, and the cart fell to the ground.

The noise was tremendous. Ropes whipped around wooden spools, sending smoke hissing out of the ride. The people inside screamed. And as it reached the bottom, a high, whining shriek was emitted from the complex braking system. The riders emerged laughing and pale, shaking and whooping, and Peer had insisted that she have a turn. Her mother refused at first but soon relented. She'd been wearing a smile that day, and Peer was the center of her life.

The feeling Peer had in the pod as it was gushed from the mouth of the Bellower was similar-at least to begin with. Then it grew a hundred times more terrifying.

She closed her eyes and held her breath, but it went on too long and she had to breathe. She heard screaming and wondered if it was her own. Her body was both hot and cold, skin scorched or frozen in a hundred places, and she had never felt so sick without actually being able to vomit. The screams were swallowed as the terrible grinding, screeching sound from outside increased, shuddering through the pod with impacts that came so often it was difficult to discern one from the next.

Peer opened her mouth to shout, but something flooded in. She gagged. Drowning, she thought, choking, dying. But she did not vomit, and she did not die. The pod slowed, the noise lessened, and it took her a long while to realize they had come to a halt.

When she opened her eyes, Nophel was leaning over her, wiping a thick gelatinous substance from her eyes.

"Just scoop it away," he said, sounding as terrified as she felt. "It's exuded to buffer the body. There. That wasn't so bad."

"I'm going to kill you." Malia spoke from out of Peer's view. "Soon as I can feel my hands again, I'm going to kill you."

Peer sat up slowly, dizzy, closing her eyes until she found balance. When she opened them again, she saw another underground chamber lit by several oil lamps, another curtain lining an entire wall, and Nophel dragging coiled tubes across the floor. Malia turned in her seat.

"I think I shit myself."

"Don't worry," Nophel said, and he seemed cheerier the more terrified Peer and Malia became. "Two more like that and we'll be there."

Gorham was beginning to understand Nadielle's terror. It was a fear born partly from knowledge and partly from the factors she still did not understand. But mostly it was composed of guilt.

He'd told her that she was not to blame. The mistakes of an ancestor born thousands of years before could hardly be laid at Nadielle's door. But then she tried to explain some of the background of the Bakers-information that, he was sure, was rarely imparted-and his own doubts had started to grow. All Bakers carried the successes and failures, and the triumphs and tragedies, of their predecessors. And though they were perceived as different people, in some ways their minds were one and the same. Imagine being born with such knowledge, he thought. What could that do to a person? But Nadielle, he was coming to realize, was more than a person. She was the culmination of her line. And everything she did, all her rights and wrongs, would also be passed on.

Such responsibility. Such weight.

Now he was following Nadielle again, up through the Echoes in a desperate rush to reach the present, see the sky, and make their way back to her laboratories. She was unsure whether there was anything that could be done, but she had to try. She had to.

All the time she'd told him her story, she never raised her voice above a whisper. He thought maybe the Lost Man's desperation had held a mirror up to her own.

"You've seen my mother's old books, Gorham, and many of them were handed down from generation to generation, hundreds or even thousands of years old. But you haven't seen all of them. Only I've seen them all, because I'm the Baker right now. I keep them hidden away. I add to them sometimes, when I improve the chopping processes or… something else. But some of the things my ancestors achieved put me in their shadows. They were explorers in arcane arts I can barely conceive of. I'm a nothing at the end of a long line of wonders. The Pserans are my greatest triumph, but I'm not sure they'll even merit an entry in the Bakers' diaries.

"I've always been aware of the Vex. It was legend thousands of years ago, something from the oldest times of the Bakers written in the oldest Baker diary. I've never questioned whether it was true. It was so old, it didn't seem to matter. The Vex was a creature created by the first Baker. Chopped, though I'm sure back then the processes were vastly different. The first Baker wrote about the Vex only briefly. I read the account just once, and that's all that was needed. I never forgot:

"The Vex was bad, and it would grow worse, so I threw it into the Falls.

"It was left to succeeding Bakers to write down what they knew. Some of it must have been word of mouth, though most of it is inherited memory. Gorham, I can't tell you, can't explain, how I know most of the things I know. It was in my head from the beginning. It's passed down, but not in the way your name is passed from your parents to you or the color of your hair. This is knowledge, as certain as the color of my hair or the build of my bones. And buried in that mass of handed-down knowledge, I see why that first Baker should have written so much more.

"The Vex was one of the first attempts at chopping-a new process, untested, the Baker ignorant of its power. She was attempting to create something that would watch over the city, be its heart and mind, its health and conscience, and take care of things, because the city back then was young and still in turmoil. But for reasons that are long lost to time, it went wrong. The Vex killed many people. It rampaged. In the vast scope of its slaughter, it wiped out so many potential family lines. Echo City would be a very different place if the first Baker had been more careful.

"So, yes, the Vex was bad. And it would have grown worse had she not thrown it into the Falls. It's been down there in the Chasm for tens of thousands of years. Feeding on the city's dead, perhaps. Absorbing the city's history of death, disease, and murder. Brooding, maybe, and from the glimpse I caught… it's been growing. And now it's climbing back up."

"Climbing?" he'd asked.

"Swimming up the Falls from the Chasm. And I saw… It has…" The tears had come then, surprising him. When he'd hugged her, she accepted his comforting, and he had wondered ever since just who she really was.

"I'm a monster," she'd said, gasping into his neck, the same way she had when they'd made love and she'd called him her sunlight.

"No."

"Yes. I was chopped, not born. No love made me, Gorham. Only a need to survive. The same need that makes every Baker-a determination for our line to continue. Whatever accident of nature made the first Baker is resounding through the ages."

"What did make her?"

"That's knowledge that was never handed down. Why would a monster recall the key to its existence?" she asked bitterly. "Someone could use it against us."

"You're just like me," he'd said.

"No. My predecessor knew she would die, and she needed to go on. Carry all our knowledge forward. In here!" She'd slapped her own head.