In the Watchful City

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for the multitudes in each of us

Author’s Note

This novella includes a depiction of a completed suicide. For resources and support on coping with suicide or suicidal ideation, please refer to this international list of suicide hotlines: www.suicide.org/international-suicide-hotlines.html. Additionally, some imagery may be triggering for self-harm survivors, specifically in the stories A Death Made Manifold and As Dark As Hunger.

ANIMA CLOSES ÆR EYES and sees the world.

Æ borrows the body of a crow in flight. The two suns creep toward the horizon, casting long shadows from the floating islands overhead, shadows that cross the lapping waves of the Hǎilèi Sea to the shores of Ora, plunging the city-state into twilight, even as sunset engulfs the rest of the world. The glow of the streetlamps in Tiānkyo, capital of the Skylands, underlines the gathering clouds. Sheltered by trees, Ora bides its time below, cut off from the rest of the world by choice, dark save for motes of light that escape through gaps in the canopy.

Anima releases the crow and plunges into the body of a tomcat padding down one of the city’s alleys. Æ peers around a corner. A tall figure approaches, one hand wheeling an octagonal case. A black snake floats, weightless, above the figure’s shoulders, sleek scales refracting sunlight into rainbows. Feline eyes narrowing, Anima swishes ær tail, relishing the feeling of it: an extension of ær body, vestigial in ær human form.

Cccccclaccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk. The case clatters over the stones paving the street. The figure’s skin is dark, rich, copper brown. Ser hair, a cloud of tightly coiled black curls, halos ser. Perched atop that halo like a crown is a gold headband, charms dangling from it like a veil. A gilded floral motif decorates the high plateau of ser forehead. Heavy, gold rings rest around ser neck; gold bangles clink against ser wrists. Ser glittering earrings brush against ser collarbones. A wind catches ser dark cape, billowing it out behind ser, revealing the brilliant, ochre dress se’s wearing underneath, the material delicately patterned like a butterfly wing, shimmering in the slanted light.

Anima scans the figure’s face and pulses the data into the Gleaming. No matches. Æ pulls back, observes enough data to establish the figure’s gait, then pulses that data into the Gleaming.

Still no matches.

The figure’s heels clack against the sett-paved street, sharp staccatos piercing the humming noise of the city. When the figure is a few steps away, Anima turns and flees, silent as æ came.

Anima opens ær eyes, giving ærself a moment to settle back into ær true body. Pinpricks of light flow out from the stem rooted to the nape of ær neck. Æ lifts ær hands, observing first the palms, then the backs. Lichen crusts ær nail beds, but the golden light of the Gleaming still shines through the cuticles.

The amniotic bath ripples as Anima sits up. Milky-white waves splash against the fibrous walls of ær pod. Æ traces ær fingers along the walls, then pushes apart the dense fronds overhead to reveal the darkness of the room beyond. Vines twist away from the pod and form thick bundles that weave into branches and cling to the scaly bark of an inverted tree whose roots puncture the roughly hewn slate of the ceiling as its crown presses against the floor.

It takes Anima a moment to notice the sound, but it soon becomes unmistakable: the same sharp staccato of heels from the city echoes down the subterranean halls of the Hub, accompanied by a smooth whir of wheels.

Æ isn’t surprised, then, when the figure steps through the moon gate into the chamber. Se comes to a stop, pulling up the octagonal trunk beside ser as the snake settles onto ser shoulders, its muscled length twisting, dark eyes glittering.

Hello, Anima says, watching the figure intently. It’s been long enough since æ’s spoken to anyone else that ær voice has once again become unfamiliar to ær ears. How did you enter the city?

Through the Io gate, of course, the figure says, smiling. You can check my registration, can’t you?

I already have. Your record says that you came in through the northern Io gate.

So what’s the problem?

The figure’s gaze is dark, ser eyes like willow leaves, long and narrow, alluring and entrancing.

I have no visual confirmation of you entering the city, Anima says slowly. I only saw you exit an alley onto Anatoma Street.

There are all kinds of people in Ora, but the figure, still smiling as se stands before Anima, radiates something uncanny. Eerie.

Only when Anima looks down does the difference become clear.

The figure’s shadow is detached from ser body. The gap between ser feet and ser shadow is about the length of ær palm.

Who are you? Anima asks.

My name is Vessel. With an elegant swoop of ser arm, se gestures to the trunk beside ser. I have come to Ora to exhibit my qíjìtáng.

You need a business permit to do that, Anima says reflexively, but with little conviction. Ær gaze lingers on the trunk, made of dark-cherry rosewood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and semiprecious stone, braced with bronze filigree corners. Vessel’s slender hand rests on top. The dim light reflects a line of ethereal red off the wood and onto ser hand. Ser long, coffin-shaped nails are lacquered black, the fourth fingernail inset with a sparkling ruby ringed by a fine braid of gold.

Do I? I’m not selling anything. Vessel lifts ser hand, another graceful gesture like water flowing over a stone; se cradles ser cheek in ser palm, ser other hand propping up ser elbow. Would you like to see what I have?

Anima parts ær lips, about to speak, but Vessel snaps ser fingers.

Ah, I should mention, se says, in order to see the collection, you must promise to add an item to it. Are you willing to do so?

I—

Ær stem pulses. Anima’s vision washes out into the gold of the Gleaming, spreading fractal-infinite through ær sight, plunging ær in the flow of particles and light.

fugitive

The suspect’s face flashes directly onto ær retinas: masculine, vulpine; alabaster pale, eyes ocean dark. Anima takes note of the suspect’s physical signature—gait, balance, tempo, pheromones, body odor, voice—and confirms receipt. The Gleaming retreats like a thousand-petaled lotus folding in on itself. It takes Anima a moment to adjust back to the dim light of ær chamber.

Come back later, Anima says, cuticles and pupils pulsing with golden light. Before Vessel can reply, Anima sinks back into the amniotic bath of the pod, drawing the fronds closed after ærself. As the last of the glossy, green stalks interlace together, Anima catches a glimpse of Vessel’s willow-leaf eyes lingering, watching.

* * *

Anima borrows the eyes of a rat, scrabbles along the rooftops, claws catching on rough imbrices and tegulae scabbed over with lichen, tail held out for balance. Ær rat heart beats six times faster than ær human heart as æ sniffs the air, nostrils flaring and relaxing like semaphores. The scents of the city map out on a layer over the buildings and streets: humid, verdant air trapped under the canopy; sour whiffs of garbage waiting to be collected; methane from the sewers; urine and other markings from the animals living in the urban jungle; scallions frying in a nearby apartment; the sillage of someone’s perfume; pheromone traces from all the people moving throughout the city—including the suspect’s.

Anima seizes the note and follows its trail.

Æ slips through a hole in a roof and lands in an attic. Chasing the signature, Anima scurries through interlinked crawl spaces to cut through the dense neighborhoods, then darts out through an open window. Æ hops from awning to awning, clings to balconies and eaves, then makes ær way down tangled vines back to the ground. Peony Lane: Anima recognizes it immediately by the floral motifs on the bollards blocking traffic into a pedestrian area.

Anima releases the rat, then borrows a rock pigeon and takes flight. Ær olfactory map of the city shifts to accommodate the new vessel’s sensory limits. Anima pinpoints the suspect’s trace, then scans the crowds for the suspect’s gait and other signatures. Within moments, Anima locks ær gaze on the suspect sprinting through the crowd toward the treetop walkways.

Anima releases the pigeon and dives into the body of a raccoon hunting through trash in an alley beside the entrance to the walkways. Æ launches ærself off the bin, scrambling for a hold on the setts as æ swings around to block the fugitive’s path. The suspect skids to a stop. Anima scans his face, taking in his expression: panic, then a blaze of will. Æ snarls, fur puffed out, striped tail swishing.

The fugitive glances up. Anima follows his gaze to see an unfamiliar shadow flickering past the gaps in the canopy, too dark to be the Skylands’ regular eclipsing of the suns. Anima hesitates, unsure whether to release the raccoon and investigate the shadow or to apprehend the fugitive while æ has the chance.

The fugitive makes the decision for ær. He darts past Anima. With a screech, Anima leaps onto the fugitive—only to be flung off, hard. Anima crashes onto the stones, breath knocked out of ær. Æ twists and turns to get back onto ær feet, pressing ær belly to the ground as ær head spins. No use trying again.

Æ releases the raccoon and takes possession of another pigeon, intending to swoop in and slow the fugitive’s escape. As æ rushes toward the fugitive, a point of golden light appears in ær peripheral vision: another node coming in as backup. A bubble of relief rises in Anima—then bursts.

Of course it’s Enigma.

Anima flaps ær wings harder, hoping to incapacitate the fugitive alone. But the fugitive races into one of the elevators, foiling Anima’s efforts to attack him. Angrily, Anima releases the pigeon and plummets into a squirrel clinging to a branch near the elevator platform. Chittering, claws scrabbling at the bark, Anima darts up and down the trunk, agitated as æ waits for the elevator to climb the three thousand units to the walkway. The pinprick of light in ær periphery becomes erratic, suggesting that Enigma, too, is leapfrogging through multiple bodies.

When the elevator doors open,