The advance stalled while a mortarman tried to take out the sniper. Guilford found himself staring at Tom Compton’s wounds. The frontiersman’s right shoulder was notched in a flaring V, and there V’as a gaping hole directly under his lowest left rib.

What occupied these damaged spaces was not ruined flesh but something more vaporous and grotesque, a luminous outline, the frontiersman’s own body configured as petrified flame.

Lose flesh, Guilford thought, and your ghost shows through.

He looked reluctantly at his own wounds. Took the inventory.

He had been hit hard. Chest and belly flayed, clothing charred. His torso glimmered like a mad party lantern. He ought to be dead. Was dead, perhaps. He seemed to possess no blood, no viscera, no meat, only this hot and pulsing light.

Deep numbers, he found himself thinking. Strange, deep numbers.

He didn’t bleed, but he could feel his heart hammering madly in his damaged chest. Or was that an illusion too? Maybe he had been dead for twenty years… it had felt that way, often enough. Breathe in, breathe out, lift a hammer or twist a wrench; shun love, shun friendship, endure…

Bullets rattled into pebbled soil inches from his ear.

You knew this day would come. Too long postponed.

“They’re killing us,” he murmured.

“No,” Tom said. “Maybe that’s what that sniper thinks. You know better. They’re not killing us, Guilford. They can only kill what’s mortal.” He winced as he turned. “They’re hatching the gods out of us.”

“It hurts,” Guilford said.

“That it does.”

He remembered too much, too vividly, all that long morning.

He rolled over a brambled hedge of barbed wire, caught his foot in a snakeroot runner, fell another several yards and landed with his rifle sprawled at arm’s length. Raw stone abraded his cheek. He had reached the outskirts of the City.

It was me, he thought, at Belleau Wood, I do remember. Ah, Christ: the wheat field overgrown with poppies and the men falling on every side, leaving the wounded behind for the medics, if the medics weren’t cut down, too, and men calling out over the roar of gunfire and sour smoke in rolling waves… Look at us, Guilford thought. Nearly two hundred half-human old men followed behind him, in snakeskin longcoats, dungarees, slouch hats for helmets, wearing holes the size of apples where the bullets had passed them through. Yet not immortal after all. The vessel of the body could bear only a certain degree of pain and magic. Some wounds could kill, some men had been left lifeless on the ridge, dead as the men at Belleau Wood.

Stripped of much of his flesh, loping now between eroded columns of stone, Guilford remembered.

He’s ridden me like a horse all these years.

But we’re the same.

But we’re not.

Memory boiled out of the City of Demons like steam.

Once these structures had stood white and blank as marble, filled with provender and home to a blindly virulent and immensely powerful species groomed as instruments for the penetration of psilife into Archival time. They had lived like insects, brainless builders. Immersed at adulthood into the Well of Creation, they emerged as mortal gods.

It was one pathway into the ontosphere of the Archive. There were, of course, thousands of such points of entry. Psilife was both relentless and ingenious.

I have seen them before, and they frightened me: Lord, what frightens a man who walks between stars?

I remember Caroline, he thought grimly. I remember Lily. I remember Abby and Nicholas.

I remember the way blood looks when it mixes with rain and earth.

I remember blue skies under a sun that died a billion years ago.

I remember too many skies.

Too many worlds.

He remembered, unwillingly, the thousand Byzantiums of the ancient galaxy.

He moved deeper into these rubbled alleys, places where the noon sun couldn’t reach, where shadow’s rivered into oceans of darkness.

He thought, Am I dying?

What did dying mean, when the world was made of numbers?

Tom Compton joined him, the two men walking side by side for several paces. “Look sharp,” the frontiersman said. “They’re close.”

Guilford closed his eyes on stars, opened them on carved and eroded stone.

The smell, he thought. Acrid. Like solvent. Like something gone terribly bad. Ahead of him, where the mist lifted, he saw the bright body and razor claws of the enemy.

“Don’t show yourself,” Tom Compton whispered. “We’re too close to the dome to risk a fight.”

Ten thousand years ago, as the ontosphere measured time, the demons had been bound in their Well.

Their earthly avatars were animals. Psilife had written dangerous code into their DNA, but they posed no direct threat to the Archive unless they were god-ridden. Guilford had fought them as a god, invisible and powerful as the wind.

They would emerge from the well wearing the same powerful bodies, and the demon-ridden men defending the well were subject to the same monistic logic, their human bodies surrendering to alien genetic programs.

Sooner than the demons had expected. Fresh Turing packets had disrupted their timing. The enemy was hindered by its own clumsy metamorphosis.

But it would all be for nothing unless one of these seed-sentiences carried his ancient ghost into the deeps of the well.

Guilford Law felt the mortal Guilford’s fear — after all, it was his own. He pitied this small replica of himself, this unwitting axis on which the world turned.

Courage, little brother. the thought echoed between Guilford and Guilford like a beam of light between flawed mirrors.

The demon-ridden men — even those so utterly transformed that they could no longer handle a rifle — were still lethally dangerous. Even now, hurt as he was, Guilford felt the enormous energy that was being expended to keep him alive.

The sound of artillery had faded to the west. Running out of ammunition, Guilford thought. More hand-to-hand fighting now.

The city had been different in winter, with Tom and Sullivan trudging beside him, the sound of human voices and the mournful baying of the fur snakes and the softening curvature of the snow, back when we were ignorant enough to believe in a sane and ordered world.

He thought unhappily of Sullivan struggling to make sense of the miracle of Darwinia… which was, after all, not a miracle, only a technology so monstrously advanced that no single human being could make sense of it or recognize its signature. But Sullivan wouldn’t have liked this haunted world, Guilford thought, any more than Preston Finch did; this world wasn’t kind to skeptics or zealots.

Small-arms fire rattled nearby. Up ahead, Tom Compton waved Guilford forward along a dark stone wall scabbed with moss. The morning’s clear skies had given way to tumbled, leaden cloud and fits of rain. The frontiersman’s ravaged body gloved faintly — about a candle’s worth — in the shadow’s. Tough for night-fighting. Might as well hang out a sign, Guilford thought. Kill me quick, I’m only half-dead.

But the enemy were easy to see, too.

A dozen of them moved along the silent avenue a few yards away. He crouched behind tumbled stone and watched them after they passed, their knobby backs shining like hammered metal and their long heads swiveling querulously. They were grotesquely bipedal, almost a deliberate parody of the human beings they had recently, been. Some of them wore tattered remnants of clothing over their bony hips and shoulders.

The mortal fraction of Guilford Law was frightened to the point of panic.