the Order worshipped. Then the bronze man shifted to face me and said in a grating voice, “Lara Croft.” He stared for a full ten seconds . . . then blinked and turned away.
I’d faced the impossible many times: living dinosaurs, shambling mummies, giant insects, ancient gods. I was long past the point where I could be shocked by the uncanny. My response to this living metal man was more like . . . acute disappointment.
It’s hard to explain. I wished the universe were better behaved. I don’t mean I wanted my life more tame or predictable—heaven forbid. But I felt as if the world had gotten drunk and vomited on the dinner table. Violations of science didn’t shake me, but they left me wishing for better. Why did the world keep breaking its own rules? Couldn’t it show better manners?
I suddenly felt bone tired.
Father Emil placed his hand on my shoulder and eased me across the threshold. I let myself be led inside. The bronze man took no notice. Colored pixels from monitor screens reflected distortedly on his polished metal skin.
He wore no clothes but was smooth and sexless . . . like the Oscar figurines given out as Academy Awards. Unlike Oscar, however, the bronze man’s head had the conventional elements of human features: eyes, nose, ears, mouth. Not that any of these were entirely normal. The eyes, for example, were unmarked orbs of metal with no pupils or corneas. The mouth had mobile lips capable of forming expressions, but inside there were no teeth or tongue. The nose looked standard enough at first, until I noticed that the nostril openings were covered with a fine wire mesh. As for the ears, they had no openings at all—they seemed to be present for the sake of appearance, aimed at giving a vestige of humanity to a creature who had little else in common with
Homo sapiens.
Had Roger Bacon once looked upon this inhuman face? Was the metal man old enough to have known Thomas Aquinas and Virgil? But the stories only talked about a bronze
head,
not a full bronze body . . .
Wait. I hadn’t noticed at first, but the bronze man was missing his left leg. The “flesh” of his left hip was black where the leg should have been attached—an ugly puckered black, unlike the mirror finish of the rest of his body.
Unbidden, the name “Osiris” rose in my mind . . . particularly the legends that some of the god’s dissected body parts had never been found.
“Are you the god Osiris?” I asked the metal man.
He said nothing; he didn’t even look in my direction. Eventually, it was Father Emil who answered my question.
“Bronze is the source of the Osiris legend; but of course, he’s not a god.”
“What is he?”
“We don’t know.” Father Emil gazed at the man of bronze, the monk’s expression unreadable. “Members of our Order have proposed many theories about Bronze’s origin. Virgil thought he might have been built by the Roman god Vulcan. Agrippa suggested Bronze was a demon summoned by Atlantean sorcerers. Thomas Aquinas thought Bronze was a golem made to work on the Tower of Babel. More recently, we’ve considered he might be from outer space or perhaps an android transported back through time from our own future.” Father Emil gave a rueful smile. “Feel free to offer your own guess. Every generation invents new paradigms. Do you think Bronze is a collective hallucination made tangible by human belief? Or perhaps we’re all living inside a computer simulation, and Bronze is a glitch in the operating system.”
“What does Bronze say he is?” I asked.
“He won’t answer. Those who believe he’s a robot think he’s been programmed not to give out information on his background. Those who believe he’s magical say he won’t talk about himself for fear someone learns his true name.” Father Emil shrugged. “I don’t think Bronze himself knows where he came from. He’s . . . well, he’s not all there, is he?”
“You’re referring to his missing leg? What happened to
I’d faced the impossible many times: living dinosaurs, shambling mummies, giant insects, ancient gods. I was long past the point where I could be shocked by the uncanny. My response to this living metal man was more like . . . acute disappointment.
It’s hard to explain. I wished the universe were better behaved. I don’t mean I wanted my life more tame or predictable—heaven forbid. But I felt as if the world had gotten drunk and vomited on the dinner table. Violations of science didn’t shake me, but they left me wishing for better. Why did the world keep breaking its own rules? Couldn’t it show better manners?
I suddenly felt bone tired.
Father Emil placed his hand on my shoulder and eased me across the threshold. I let myself be led inside. The bronze man took no notice. Colored pixels from monitor screens reflected distortedly on his polished metal skin.
He wore no clothes but was smooth and sexless . . . like the Oscar figurines given out as Academy Awards. Unlike Oscar, however, the bronze man’s head had the conventional elements of human features: eyes, nose, ears, mouth. Not that any of these were entirely normal. The eyes, for example, were unmarked orbs of metal with no pupils or corneas. The mouth had mobile lips capable of forming expressions, but inside there were no teeth or tongue. The nose looked standard enough at first, until I noticed that the nostril openings were covered with a fine wire mesh. As for the ears, they had no openings at all—they seemed to be present for the sake of appearance, aimed at giving a vestige of humanity to a creature who had little else in common with
Homo sapiens.
Had Roger Bacon once looked upon this inhuman face? Was the metal man old enough to have known Thomas Aquinas and Virgil? But the stories only talked about a bronze
head,
not a full bronze body . . .
Wait. I hadn’t noticed at first, but the bronze man was missing his left leg. The “flesh” of his left hip was black where the leg should have been attached—an ugly puckered black, unlike the mirror finish of the rest of his body.
Unbidden, the name “Osiris” rose in my mind . . . particularly the legends that some of the god’s dissected body parts had never been found.
“Are you the god Osiris?” I asked the metal man.
He said nothing; he didn’t even look in my direction. Eventually, it was Father Emil who answered my question.
“Bronze is the source of the Osiris legend; but of course, he’s not a god.”
“What is he?”
“We don’t know.” Father Emil gazed at the man of bronze, the monk’s expression unreadable. “Members of our Order have proposed many theories about Bronze’s origin. Virgil thought he might have been built by the Roman god Vulcan. Agrippa suggested Bronze was a demon summoned by Atlantean sorcerers. Thomas Aquinas thought Bronze was a golem made to work on the Tower of Babel. More recently, we’ve considered he might be from outer space or perhaps an android transported back through time from our own future.” Father Emil gave a rueful smile. “Feel free to offer your own guess. Every generation invents new paradigms. Do you think Bronze is a collective hallucination made tangible by human belief? Or perhaps we’re all living inside a computer simulation, and Bronze is a glitch in the operating system.”
“What does Bronze say he is?” I asked.
“He won’t answer. Those who believe he’s a robot think he’s been programmed not to give out information on his background. Those who believe he’s magical say he won’t talk about himself for fear someone learns his true name.” Father Emil shrugged. “I don’t think Bronze himself knows where he came from. He’s . . . well, he’s not all there, is he?”
“You’re referring to his missing leg? What happened to
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