• In the reception bay at Enforcement, the Awateh shifted in impatience. He had soon tired of watching the soldiers marching into the Door. They were small soldiers mostly. There were no large landscapes on Authority in which large soldiers could maneuver. He much preferred the unequivocal horror of the monsters waiting to be sent to Hobbs Land.
“We have a surface, Holy One,” said Ornil.
The prophet gestured his permission to proceed. Ornil bowed. Faros bowed. They spoke certain commands, a barrier rolled aside, the soldiers came into the bay and began marching or rolling or hopping through the Door to Hobbs Land. They went past in seemingly endless files. When the last of them had gone through, including one carrying a smaller Door that would allow persons to return, the prophet summoned his followers with a word and strode after the soldiers, his lined faced eager with anticipation. Behind him the others marched or swaggered, their coup markers glimmering in the dimly lighted bay.
Ornil and Faros looked after them. The cavernous space was quiet. The last soldier had gone to Authority. The last of the Faithful had gone to Hobbs Land. The Doors stood open, all of them, and Ornil and Faros stared into the curtains of pale and empty fire.
“Two generations, almost three,” muttered Faros, turning his eyes away. Staring into the Doors made his head ache. “How many years? To get us here? To get this thing done? And now what?” He leaned his forehead against the console. His hand rested upon the control of the Hobbs Land Door. So easy to shut it down. If it was shut down, the Door the prophets had with them would be useless. So easy to keep the prophets from coming back. He didn’t move his hand. If he moved his hand, Ornil would kill him. He considered whether, for Silene’s sake, he should allow himself to be killed.
“The Awateh will punish those who merit punishment,” said Ornil as he also turned away from the aching shimmer. “He will return here to send the army to Phansure, and Thyker, and Ahabar. When all have been killed except our people, we will settle where we will.” He said it without joy, flatly.
“Do you suppose he’ll give us a choice?” Faros closed his eyes, concentrating. If he went back through the Door to Ninfadel, Silene and the children might be there. On the other hand, they could still be in Ahabar. Which place should he go first? And how escape from Ornil?
He decided he would go to Ahabar. He would kill Ornil, and then go to Ahabar. Faros had no sooner made the decision than he smelled something. The smell was terrible, but his first thought was something wrong on the console, and he stared at it for several moments before he looked over his shoulder and saw what was behind him. There were many of them, sliming out of the Door from Ninfadel, pouring into the Door to Authority, a few wandering out of the line and toward the place he stood, moving very fast. By the time he understood what he saw and opened his mouth to shout a warning, it was too late for Ornil, too late for himself. As the Porsa swallowed Faros, his hand on the lever was dragged down, closing the way to Hobbs Land.
• Notadamdirabong Cringh was awakened in the middle of Authority’s “night” by Lurilile’s shaking him.
“Get up,” she said. “Damn it, Notadam, get up.”
“What … ?” he managed, his mind full of a dream in which he had been young again, young enough, at least.
“Notable Scholar, wake up or I’ll dump cold water on you,” threatened his Abishag. “There’s a great badness afoot here on Authority.”
“Badness?” he quavered. “What?”
“Machines. Killing machines. Loose in the corridors. Loose in the environments. Wandering about thundering at people. We have to get away.”
“Get away?” he said stupidly.
“Abandon ship,” she shouted at him. “Yield moon.”
He sat up, suddenly clearheaded. “The Doors from the arrival and departure center will be jammed.”
“Since that’s the way the things came in, it’s unlikely they’ll be jammed with people.”
“There are other Doors, down in Supply,” he said, his mind clicking away like a machine.
They were interrupted by the door chime. Lurilile opened it, finding Rasiel Plum leaning upon the door.
“We’re under attack,” he breathed heavily, holding his chest. “Under attack.”
“So the stage said,” replied Lurilile. “I was sitting up late, seeing an old drama, something from Manhome times, something like this, an attack at night. I saw the warning. The Notable Scholar was just suggesting …”
“Just suggesting we try to get down to Supply,” said Cringh, coming to the bedroom door with his robe half-fastened. “The general access Doors will be full of these monsters.”
Rasiel sighed, a very old sigh. “I was thinking more in terms of the Final Command, Cringh.”
“Which would be what?”
“The words that will shut off the army.”
“Is there such a thing?”
“There is. As one of the Actual Members, I know what it is. So do you!”
Cringh furrowed his brow. “Oh. Well, yes. I was told about that, wasn’t I? Presumably there are nineteen other people, many of them younger than we, who also know what it is.”
“Not here,” sighed Rasiel. “I did a quick inventory while I was getting here to you. Half the Actual Members have gone to that gala on Ahabar, the dedication of the tomb of Stenta Thilion. Most of those who didn’t go weren’t able to go, too old, too tired. There may be three or four younger than we on Authority who know the phrase. You’ll recall that the phrase is, ‘A key for the last lock.’ I’m reminding you because I may not live to use it, and somebody has to.”
“Where do we say it? Where do we transmit the order from? I’m not sure I ever knew.”
“From the robing
