moonshadows

Steve followed Claudia cautiously in through the door, excitement and a little wariness as his eyes fell on the shabti standing idle in one corner. While she conferred with Artie on his plans for the day, Steve came over to the ebony figure.

“Hi,” he said with brassy confidence that covered uncertainty. “We haven’t been properly introduced, although Claud is pretty enthused about you and probably told you a bunch about me, and there is the whole part where you gave us a hand with the gargoyle the other day. So. I’m Steve. Pleased to meet you.”

He held out one hand, which was ignored as the shabti patted him on the head. “Steve good artifact.”

“Uhh…thanks.”

“Told you,” Claudia tossed over her shoulder. “Hey, Artie says the Warehouse has an idea for rigging artifacts together and making something that will let it bypass using the shabti figure to talk but we need…?”

“Hans von Bülow's piano wire,” Artie supplied. “Toledo, near da Vinci’s gargoyle. Go, go. There’s two others we’ll need as well. Here.” He handed a slip of paper to Claudia. “You, Claudia, go get the phonograph and anything you’ll need to hook one end of the wire up to it; bring that back and when Steve returns with the piano wire he can fetch the crystal pendulum from the Ancient Archives. I’ve got things I need to check and take care of before we can get started.”

The other two people-artifacts looked at each other, shrugged, and left on their errands. The shabti, too, slipped out of the Core. There was no need to wait. The crystal pendulum hummed welcomingly as one ebony hand lifted it from the silent confines of its box. This was one of the oldest, most tame artifacts and it hadn’t been touched by human hands in over a thousand years. If anything could pick up on the energies that rippled and eddied, it was this artifact. The gold chain it dangled from coiled in the shabti’s hand like a tiny snake. Artie jumped as the ebony figure’s other hand tapped his shoulder.

“Don’t do that,” he snapped, startled and blustering but not angry. “What are you- oh, is that the…?”

The ebony hand curled protectively around crystal and chain as Artie reached for it. “No touch.”

“O-okay.” He was a little taken aback by the vehement command. “I’m going to guess there’s a reason you retrieved it rather than waiting for Steve, and that the reason is connected to you not wanting me to touch it.”

“Yes.”

Artie sighed. “When you’ve got a better vocabulary, you’ll have to explain what that reason is. Until then, I bow to your judgment. I…don’t suppose you could…tell me where that’s going to go?”

“Core.”

“…anything more you can tell me?”

“Deep Core.”

“See, that doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing on your…your blueprints, or-or-or in any of the Warehouse files…could you show me?”

“Yes. No.”

“What?” Artie shook his head and squinted. “No, tha-that doesn’t- how can the answer be both yes and no?” He stared at the shabti, then groaned. “You could show me, but you won’t?”

“Yes. Not show.”

“A-are you…angry?”

“No?”

“It’s just…this is the first time you’ve really been- you don’t have a concept of yourself, I didn’t expect you to have boundaries. Can you tell me why you won’t show me?”

“Yes.” That had an answer. Why the answer existed, why the conviction was there…those didn’t. “Not Caretaker.”

“Oh.” The frustrated curiosity popped like a bubble. Apparently, it made perfect sense to him that there would be secrets known only to the Caretaker. “Okay. Hey, where are Steve and Claudia? I want to get this thing set up.”

“Artifacts come.”

The door to the Core opened and both favored artifacts entered, carrying the other two.

“Great! Claudia, why don’t you set that up on this…yes, right there. We never use the adding machine anyway, and apparently that wrought-iron stand is in the perfect spot for…wherever the pendant- you don’t have to fetch it, Steve, she did that on her own.”

Claudia settled the phonograph on the stand which had previously held an antique adding machine while Steve stood to the side, gingerly holding a spool of piano wire and watching the whole procedure with wary curiosity. She gestured him over, unlooped a length of wire, slid goggles over her eyes, and gleefully settled in to work.

“So,” Steve said to the shabti while he held the rest of the spool. “We’re trying to give the Warehouse a voice.”

Artie muttered agreement, concentrating mostly on the computer.

He shot Artie an annoyed look and tried again. “The phonograph, I can understand. The piano wire transmits sound and current perfectly. Why the crystal?”

“It’s a flawless quartz divination pendulum,” Artie clarified irritably. “She’s going to put it somewhere – she won’t or can’t tell me where – and it’s going to pick up and transmit fluctuations in the ambient energy that makes up what for lack of a better term will be called the Warehouse’s aura.”

Claudia picked up the explanation without looking away from her work. “Then the wire will transmit it to the phonograph, which will translate it into sound.”

“Yes. And the microphone already acts as her ears, so hopefully this whole rigmarole will teach the Warehouse how to translate concepts into words so she can communicate at something better than a preschool level.”

“I think she speaks very well for a four-day-old,” Claudia teased. Gleeful anticipation spiked. “Artie, can I use the projection camera to show the Warehouse Short Circuit?”

“No.”

“Aww, but why?”

He turned to glare at her. “Because if you recall, the robot had a laser. I will not have a nonexistent robot shooting up my Warehouse!”

Claudia winced. “Yeah, and there was kind of that sequence at the end where…you know what? Maybe I’ll just show her on the laptop.”

“Not yours,” the shabti said quietly.

Suddenly hurt and afraid, Artie turned to look at it. “Not- but you...”

The shabti kissed his temple. “Like Artie. Not belong Artie, belong Mrs. Frederic.”

“Two things,” Claudia said, holding laughter back. “First, I think that was the first usage of second person and thus a significant milestone. Second, it likes you very much but it is not the hell your Warehouse,” she snickered. At his confused look, the glee sharpened. “Oh my god. You’ve never seen Star Trek IV. We are so watching it. You too, Jinksy. Come on. Bonding fun for the whole family.”

“Uh…okay,” he agreed uncertainly.

“Yeah, yeah, just get that thing hooked up so she can do her part, huh?”

“Right.” Claudia turned back to the phonograph. A few moments later, she straightened and pulled off the goggles. “All set.”

Steve looked between her and the shabti. “Now what?”

“Excellent question, Jinksy, but I’m not the one running this show so I have no answer for you.”

The ebony hand not holding the crystal took the spool of wire, tilting it until a few feet of slack had pooled on the floor. Steve and Claudia both backed out of the way, towards Artie. All three favored artifacts watched with intense curiosity as the shabti walked around the corner; the curiosity gained frustrated spikes and resigned flats as they peered around the corner and saw nothing.

The shabti was in the Deep Core.

Eyes gave shape to what had only been sensed: stone walls, curving. Stone steps, leading left and right along the curve, meeting and diverging on the opposite side before melding with the floor. In the center, a rough stone plinth supported a hammered bronze dish as wide as the shabti’s spread arms. Inside the dish, a fire burned unceasingly without fuel. Slowly, the figure descended, pausing on every step to unloop more wire. There was a reason no one but the Caretaker was allowed here, and the first bas-relief set into the wall provided the answer. Echoes from the Caretaker; the carved face had been known, had been loved, and behind the stone panel were the ashes of the one who had borne that face. Mrs. Frederic’s first real act as Caretaker had been to come here, bearing the urn holding her sister’s remains, and place it in the empty niche. Other carved faces marked the walls, each one achingly familiar but frustratingly unknown. They had been Caretakers, every one of them.

Then there was an empty niche.

It wasn’t for Mrs. Frederic; that niche would appear when Claudia became Caretaker. Whoever it had been intended for…hadn’t died? That was a question that needed to be asked, whether or not there were words for it. Also, why there was a dull, aching resentment attached to the empty niche. The bones that should have rested there would forever go without that honor; they were not worthy. This…this is where the crystal would hang.

There was a convenient knob of rock protruding from the back of the niche. It may or may not have been there a minute ago. The piano wire was wound around it and threaded through the pendant’s chain, coiled around the crystal and twisted tightly to keep it secure. Helpfully, it snapped at the right place. The shabti’s ebony fingers pressed the wire gently into the cracks between the stones, anchoring it to the wall along its entire length as it climbed slowly up the stairs. Then it was back in the Core, handing the spool to Steve.

“Well,” he said, hiding a trembling shard of fear, “I think it’s working. Should the phonograph be hissing like that?”

Claudia looked at the shabti and ducked behind Artie. “She’s angry. Artie, what was down there?”

“I don’t know! She wouldn’t tell me! It’s…some sort of Caretaker-only thing.”

Words. There had to be words. “All Caretaker there. Mrs. Frederic not. Claudia not.” How to describe that empty niche?

“O-okay.” Artie was putting the pieces together, translating concepts into words. “I’m going to guess it’s some sort of crypt or-or ossuary for former Caretakers.”

“Yes.”

“And Mrs. Frederic isn’t there because she’s still alive.”

“Yes.”

Steve jerked in realization. “Claud?”

She grimaced. “Next in line, yeah. But that doesn’t explain why you’re so angry. What did you see down there?”

“No, no, look at her, she doesn’t have words for it.” Artie scrabbled at the items on his desk.

“Well, I’m almost a Caretaker, could you take me there?”

“Yes. No.”

“Ye-”

“She could, but she won’t,” Artie interrupted, translating. He shoved a piece of paper and a pencil at the ebony figure.

How to explain…? The pencil scratched over the paper for a handful of minutes before the shabti thrust it back at Artie.

Steve put the wire on the table and came around to peer over his shoulder with Claudia. “It’s…a bunch of faces?”

“No, not just a bunch of faces, you see the lines around them? These are cartouches, it’s how the Egyptians separated names from the rest of the symbols.”

“Yeah, but look at the rectangles around the cartouches,” Claudia pointed out. It looks like they’re in boxes or windows or niches-”

“Yes.”

She looked up. “Yes? Niches? Alright, niches. So there’s niches down there and in the niches are…”

“Face. Name. Identity!” Artie breathed, excited. “These are representations of former Caretakers!”

“Yes!” Oh, good artifacts.

“I feel like I’m on a game show,” Claudia quipped. “Who Wants To Translate For The Warehouse.”

“W-wait.” Artie’s elation cooled into dread. “Look, right here.” One thick finger stabbed at the paper.

Steve’s jaw clenched. “There’s one empty.”

“There’s one empty. Someone’s missing,” Artie mumbled. “But that’s impossible.”

Claudia gave him a sharp look. “How do you know that?”

“Because she’s upset. Right?”

“Yes.”

“There, you see? Now…there is a Caretaker missing from the ossuary and you don’t know why, or how, or who it is, and you’re angry about all of this.”

“Yes.”

The seed of dread spread to Claudia. “Artie…why would the Warehouse not know about something like that?”

“Because until today…you didn’t have eyes to see it with.”

“Yes.”

“Something’s not right, Artie.” Claudia backed away a few steps. “I don’t like this.”

“Yeah, I don’t either, and I’ve probably got a nastier sneaking suspicion than you do.”

Vibrations had traveled to the Caretaker; she was also unhappy. Intent traveled back. While the favored artifacts were exchanging worried looks, Caretaker and Shabti both arrived in the Deep Core.

“I haven’t been here in a very long time,” she said quietly. “And I admit – at the time, I didn’t take much of a look around.” She looked around now, but she didn’t understand most of what she was looking at. That troubled her. “Show me the empty one.”

The shabti pointed. Mrs. Frederic examined the niche, as well as the two on either side.

“I’ve seen as much as is going to help,” she said as she straightened. Hard accusation and frustration seethed behind her shell of certainty. “Let’s go discuss this with Arthur.”

The favored artifacts didn’t see shabti and Caretaker returned to the Core – no, or rather, not quite. Office, this room was called.

“Warehouse Nine,” Mrs. Frederic said without preamble, making the favored artifacts jump. “We’re looking for an irregularity in the transference during that period of time. It could be anything; Arthur, I’m counting on you.”

He licked his lips nervously. “Ah…Mrs. Frederic…there’s a matter – possibly related – I wanted to discuss with you.”

She smiled tightly. “I’m already aware of it, and I’ll handle it from my end. Do not act on it in any way beyond sharing your suspicions with those who are currently present.” Each artifact in turn was speared with her dark gaze. “Agent Jinks. Miss Donovan. Do I make myself clear? You are to do nothing regarding this issue, not even discussing it with Agents Bering and Lattimer, until you hear from me.”

Claudia swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Go ahead and tell them, Arthur.” While they turned to Artie, the Caretaker left again.

He hesitated, looking at the shabti, emotions in a curdling mass of loops and spikes. Then he grabbed the pencil and a blank sheet of paper and turned to write on the table, his body between the paper and the shabti’s eyes. They bent over to watch as he wrote, horror and rage flaring.

“They what?” Claudia shrieked while Steve recoiled.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh, we don’t know. We suspect. And even if they did, we don’t know why or, more importantly, how.”

“And you expect me to just sit on this?”

“Yes,” Steve said quietly. “Claud, this is – no one can know about this, no one can even know we suspect this, until Mrs. Frederic tells us what to do.”

“We can’t just-” Anguished, she looked at the shabti.

Artie hugged her. “We have to. Think of everything that could go wrong. Think of what’s at stake. I know you want to, Claudia, and believe me I want to just as much as you do – but we can’t.”

“And we can’t tell Pete and Myka,” Steve said grimly. “They don’t have the best track record of holding still when someone tells them to drop something.”

Claudia glared over Artie’s shoulder. “They’re going to figure out something is wrong. I can’t just file this away and pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Okay, look. Claudia, you’re right,” Artie said, stepping back. “They’re going to figure out something’s wrong. But if we tell them one thing that’s upsetting you, they won’t stop to ask if there’s a second thing, hmm?”

That wasn’t comforting to either of the other two.

“Why do I simultaneously want to drag the information out of you and cover my ears going la la la I can’t hear you?”

Artie took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “The Warehouse has no sense of her self-identity. We were discussing names last night and…I pressed the issue and it upset her.”

“That makes no sense,” Steve protested. “How can she not know what she is?”

Claudia paled and sat suddenly in Artie’s chair. “It makes perfect sense. She’s not used to communicating at all, she’s been linked to Mrs. Frederic since the beginning. Her…entire concept of herself would be from the outside. She knows what the Warehouse is, she’s just…not…” Eyes wide, she looked at the shabti. “She doesn’t know that she is the Warehouse.”

The hissing, burbling, growling sounds that had been coming from the phonograph changed to a high keening that distressed the favored artifacts, but it wouldn’t stop. Artie hugged the shabti tightly.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s okay. We’re going to fix this. We’re going to fix it together, remember?”

Artie would fix it. That was his job. “Yes.”

The keening stopped.

Artie stepped back, and then Claudia was hugging the shabti. “I’ll fix you, too. I promise. I wouldn’t let Steve stay broken and I’m not going to let you stay broken, either.”

“Good Claudia.”

“Alright. Now, Claudia, why don’t you and Steve take our friend over to the table and discuss first person, second person, and third person with her. I’ve got some research I promised to do, so I’ll be in the records room if you need me. Oh, oh, and make sure you pay attention to the phonograph, now that we have it set up. Try to see if you can get her to go from sounds to words.”

Steve grinned at Claudia. “Never a dull moment.”

“What is this, arts and crafts?”

Claudia rolled her eyes while Steve massaged his temples. “Here,” she said, not looking up. “Come over here. You can be an object demonstration.”

Warily, Artie sat at the table, a thick manila folder in one hand. Claudia took the triangle-ish thing she had constructed out of paper and passed it to him. There was a circle surrounding one point, labeled I/ME/MINE (FIRST PERSON). The two sides leading away had arrows drawn on them and were labeled YOU/YOU/YOURS (SECOND PERSON), while the third side read HE/HIM/HIS SHE/HER/HERS IT/IT/ITS (THIRD PERSON).

“Thank you,” he said dryly.

“Lay it flat with the circle closest to you. See, the circle is first person.”

Steve took up the explanation. “When Artie’s holding it, the circle shows that to him, he’s the first person. You and Claud, you’re the second people because the arrows point to you.”

“And Steve is in the middle, so he’s third person because I’m not talking directly to him,” Artie finished. “I get it. So what’s the problem?”

“Announce everyone for me?” Claudia asked, face in her hands.

“Uh...I am Artie, you are Claudia, you are the Warehouse, he is Steve?”

Steve took the triangle and aimed the circle at himself. “I am Steve, you are Artie, she is Claudia, you are the Warehouse.”

Claudia took the triangle back and laid it in front of the shabti, circle closest to the ebony figure.

“You are Claudia,” it said. “You are Artie. He is Steve.”

“Aaaaaand?”

The shabti turned the triangle so the third-person side was closest. Claudia and Steve groaned in unison.

Artie thought very hard for a long minute. “Where’s that pen?”

He flipped the triangle over and in he circle, wrote WE/US/OURS. One arrow lead to a corner, where he wrote THEY/THEM/THEIRS. Then he stood and moved to just behind the shabti, laying the triangle in front of them.

“We are giving the pen to them,” he said slowly, offering Claudia the writing implement. Eyes wide, she took it. “Now they give it to us.” Claudia offered it back, and he took it. Then he handed it to the shabti. “Your turn.”

“We give pen them.”

Slowly, Steve accepted the item.

“They give pen us.”

Steve handed it back. Artie gestured him away from Claudia and flipped the triangle back over. “We give the pen to you,” he told Claudia. “Now you give it back to us.” He handed it to the shabti again. “Give it to him.”

“We give pen him, he give pen us.”

Artie took the pen back and went to stand behind Claudia. “Give us the pen.” When it was offered, he took it. “Now ask us for it back.”

“Give pen us?”

That stern look again, the look that dismissed artifact and building. “What’s it say on the circle?”

“I, me, mine, first person.”

“We had to teach her that,” Steve said in a hushed voice. “She can’t read very well.”

“Very good. So which word is appropriate for asking us for the pen?”

A quiet whine came from the phonograph.

“If it were Steve, how would he ask for the pen?”

“Give pen me?”

“Good, you’re going great. Now ask us for the pen.”

“Give pen…” Us wasn’t right; Artie was already glaring. “…Warehouse?”

Artie sighed. “I’m not sure whether to chide you for not saying ‘me’ or to praise you for using some kind of self-identification.”

“At least she’s not still turning the triangle around every time we set it in front of her,” Claudia said. “And she grasps the idea of first person now, she just…refuses to use it on herself.”

“But she’ll use first person plural,” Steve pointed out. “That’s progress, right?”

The phonograph whined again.

“We’re not angry, we’re just frustrated. This is just something that comes so easily to us,” he explained.

Us. We. The phonograph let out a low, moaning sound that had the favored artifacts worried.

“Talk to me,” Claudia said urgently. “What’s wrong?”

“Not us.” That wasn’t good enough. “Not people-artifact. Not artifact. Not Caretaker. Not us.”

Steve stiffened. “She feels like an outsider.”

Claudia dashed for the computer. Keys rattled in the sudden silence. “Artie, do you think you could handle reading a children’s book out loud? There’s one I remember from waaay back when and the library here is beyond description, but if I try to do the reading I’m going to cry.”

“I can give it a shot,” he answered warily. “What am I…?”

She scribbled on a sheet of paper and came back to hand it to him. “Flutterby.”

He grunted. “On the condition that someone else fetches it. In the meantime, I think I found Mr. Lili Marlene.”

Steve didn’t even pretend to not be confused. “Mister who now?”

“Mister…” Artie opened the file. “Joseph Roberts. Ran the Warehouse long before my time. And, if I’ve got the right guy, used to listen to Lili Marlene a lot and loved everything about his job, but the Warehouse most of all.”

“Lili Marlene?” Claudia asked, just as Steve repeated, “Ran the Warehouse…”

Artie opened his mouth to answer, one finger in the air as he turned to face one and then the other, not sure who to address first.

“Artie, that’s why she has such a hard time with first person singular,” he went on, not waiting. “Think about it. We use ‘the Warehouse’ as a collective term, a plural. It’s something we’re all part of, it’s a group, it’s…it’s…an idea, an ideal, an organization, a place…the Warehouse is so much more than just a building, even one as fabulous as this one is, and she is more than any singular entity. The Warehouse has been around longer than any most empires, it would take an entire library to describe its history, and I’m pretty sure it would take theoretical physics to explain its very existence. No wonder she can’t fit herself into our puny human concepts – she’s something bigger, something greater, than they were ever meant to describe!” He sat back with a laugh of amazement. “We’re facing the same problem so many ancient peoples have wrestled with: how do you describe god?”

Artie glanced at the blank-faced shabti, then at the phonograph which was emitting a quiet, inquisitive trill, then turned to Steve. “I thought you were Buddhist.”

“You think I could work here if I couldn’t entertain possibilities outside of my personal beliefs? Buddhism is more a way of life than a religion. Besides, I’ve seen you eat bacon.”

“This isn’t about me,” Artie muttered defensively. Again, he looked at the shabti. “It’s about you.”

There were many artifacts willing to whisper about gods. It took a few minutes to listen to them all while the favored artifacts waited patiently. The ones from Warehouse Two particularly agreed with Steve.

“Am Warehouse.” The favored artifacts jumped slightly at hearing the shabti’s voice. “Give pen.”

Silently, Artie held it out.

“You know,” Claudia said brightly, “I’m going to call this a success. Even if she’s not saying I or me, that was a first-person identification and a pretty solid claim of identity.”

“A-and really, if we’re going to maintain the fiction that the shabti is just a tool rather than an avatar, then not using first person is best for the time being. I just…” Artie trailed off, tendrils of concern flailing helplessly. “She needs me, he half-whispered. “I promised her I’d fix what was broken.”

Steve and Claudia looked at each other over his head. “You are so whipped,” she said.

“I-I’m not-”

Steve mimed cracking a whip. “Whp-psch!”

Good-natured grumpiness bubbled up. “Alright, you two, get out of here. Go…do inventory. Or something. I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s not here.”

“We’re going, we’re going.” Claudia stood up, filled with mock-affront. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. We’ll leave you alone with the missus. But I better not hear any disturbing noises coming from your room later.”

He gave her a flat look while Steve tried to pretend he hadn’t just heard that. Laughing silently, she led Steve out of the office.

“Feeling better about everything?” Artie asked gently once the door had closed behind the other two.

The phonograph hummed happily. “Yes.” Then, slowly, “Warehouse…like…you.”

Overcome with joy so deep it bordered on pain, he took his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “I know,” he said thickly. “I like you, too. I wish Leena – but she knew, didn’t she? She was so in tune…oh god, I miss her.”

“Warehouse miss Leena.”

Pain eclipsed the fleeting joy. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The shabti stood and moved around the table to hug him from behind. “Shh. Not Artie fault. Leena know. Good Artie-fact.”

Artie chucked weakly. “Thank you. Ah – are you still bothered by the issue of your name?”

“Am Warehouse.” It was a less distressing option than contemplating any further identity.

“Um…is that a yes, or a no?”

“Maybe?”

Blindly, he reached up and patted the shabti’s ebony braids. “I’m working on it,” he promised. “In the meantime…if you let me up, I can- I have a surprise for you.”

This promised good things; hopeful joy simmered under his skin. The shabti retreated to the keyboard. Artie went to his desk and fiddled with some objects, and then-!

Music. Music, familiar, rippling and vibrating, resonating through the microphone and echoing from every speaker. Every artifact paused to listen, and time very nearly held still except that doing so would have silenced the music. And from the Caretaker’s favorite artifact, love. The same love. It nearly hurt when the song ended.

“Do…” Artie swallowed. “Do you like it?”

“Artifact name. Give.”

“Joseph Roberts,” he said quietly.

No, that didn’t quite fit…that wasn’t it. “Not full name.”

“That’s not- of course it is, there’s no- oh. You mean you don’t want his full name. Uh…Joseph. Joe. Joey.”

“Yes! Joey. Joey good artifact. Joey like Warehouse.” From the phonograph, a trill that rose and fell and rose and fell. Wie einst, Lili Marlene. “Miss Joey. Favored artifact break, hurt…Warehouse.”

Distressed, Artie leaped from his chair and hugged the ebony figure tightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up…”

“Shh. Artie give music, fix hurt.”

“Happy memories. I gave you happy memories?”

“Yes.”

Determination bubbled up. “I’ll play it again for you tomorrow. That is – if you’d like me to.”

“Like,” whispered the shabti.

“Okay. I’ll just…put his file back…”

Artie hummed as he went into the records room. Wie einst, Lili Marlene.