As they ascended, Tesla City looked almost like a toy diorama made by steampunk enthusiasts. Like one he'd once seen on a poster for a convention. He'd planned to go, but there'd been an emergency at work, so he'd had to cancel. The only thing that made it look real was the steam and smoke rising from it.
Even up here, Arnie could still feel the city's song — faint now, like music heard through a wall. A steady presence at the edge of his awareness. It wasn't loud enough to comfort him anymore, but it was there.
The gondola lurched again, a deep grinding sound shuddering through the cables. Arnie staggered but caught himself, his hand moving instinctively to the dagger at his belt. He could barely feel the hilt through the thick gloves, yet there was something grounding in its solid presence.
When he had turned fourteen, his father had given him a switchblade. A boy should have a blade. Father hadn't bothered to teach him how to use it—a boy should figure that out himself. By the time Arnie managed it on his own, Father had already lost interest. Maybe Arnie had just been too slow.
He'd lost the switchblade when he moved to the city. And even though this was a magic dagger in some quiet, unsettling way, it felt the same.
Needing a distraction—anything to pull his mind off the dizzying drop and the dagger at his belt—Arnie turned to his companion in this mad venture. The boy who called himself Emperor Nero.
Nero was a bundle of stiff, heavy fabric. Goggles and a thick woollen scarf swallowed his features entirely. Yet he leaned against the railing, gazing down at the shrinking city with the eagerness of a kid climbing a tree—or riding a roller coaster—rather than someone being hauled up a freezing cliff in a rattling tin can.
With the face hidden, Arnie should've had no idea what he was thinking.
But Nero made it obvious.
Every movement was expansive. Confident. Unapologetically theatrical.
"Can I ask you something?" Arnie asked, loud enough to be heard over his thick scarf and the rattling noise the gondola made as it climbed.
"I promise no answers, my curious friend," Nero replied, his gaze never leaving the city below. "But I give you my word that I will not be offended. Nor will I deem it silly. As Seneca often said, the most foolish question is the one left unvoiced."
Arnie's father would have disagreed.
But Arnie was trying very hard not to listen to that voice. And it was getting a little easier.
"So… you're the ancient Roman Emperor Nero?" Arnie hedged, raising a hand slightly. "But you're also—well. A boy. How is that possible?"
"By a god's grace, my friend," Nero answered. "I was born. I was adopted by my mother's next husband, the Emperor Claudius. I was proclaimed Emperor after lizard people replaced him. I waged a long, secret war against them, and in the end, I lost both my empire and my life. But in that fated defeat, I sowed the seeds of a victory that would not bloom for two millennia. Thus, my death was not in vain."
Arnie's brain stalled, like a computer trying to run a program it lacked RAM for. He swallowed against a dry throat. But before he could even begin processing it, the boy continued, his small body moving in a measured, somber fashion.
"After death, I dwelled in a place Magister had prepared for the faithful. And now, when the world has need of me once more, I have been reborn—not into my old flesh, but into a new one—to continue the good work. For like you, I too come from a different world. Though this body was born here."
The boy paused, then added lightly, "Surely you have noticed, my curious friend, that this is not the same world you came from?"
"I might not have been the most attentive student of history. Computers were more my thing," Arnie replied, shrugging.
Then he remembered that Nero wasn't watching him closely. And even if he were, in these heavy clothes, a shrug was basically invisible. Feeling a bit foolish, he continued, "But I did suspect that I was not merely in the past. It's just too different."
"Well, you might be the most inattentive student of history, but you could not miss the fact that the whole world had frozen for a time," Nero replied, his body language radiating amusement—but it was the warm kind. The kind that felt like he was laughing with Arnie, not at him.
But all that warmth was chased away by freezing dread once Arnie grasped the meaning of Nero's words.
"Wait—what?" Arnie blurted. "The whole world is frozen?"
"Yes," Nero replied calmly. "Or did you think Tesla City was simply built in an unfortunate climate?"
"Yes," Arnie admitted—though in truth, he hadn't thought about it at all.
"No." Nero's playfulness evaporated. He gripped the railing, his small shoulders hunching against the wind. "All the world is but a frozen graveyard. Places like Tesla City are rare—bright candles in an unforgiving wind. Of mankind, only a remnant of a remnant yet lives. Hope, warmth, and food are scarce. Despair, cold, and hunger are not."
Arnie's eyes were drawn back to the cityscape. Where it had looked wonderful before, it now seemed terribly fragile.
He tried to imagine it. The world as a whole, just… ending.
But he couldn't.
It was too big.
Everyone he knew—or almost everyone—dead. Fellow students at college. People he'd exchanged only a few words with. The other workers at ASEND. Nameless faces he passed on the street.
All of them gone.
His mind refused it.
"How did it happen?" he asked. His voice sounded small in his own ears.
His hands ached. He looked down; he was gripping the railing so hard the leather gloves creaked. He forced his fingers to loosen.
"Far too quickly," Nero said. "The Great Frost began scarcely a year ago—in the summer of 1886. At first it seemed small—a chain of strange weather patterns. Frost during summer. Killer snowstorms in the northern countries. Never-ending rain in the Sahara. And an ever-accelerating drop in temperatures worldwide."
"And that was enough for governments to build refuges like this?" Arnie asked.
He wanted to believe it. But experience had taught him that governments rarely acted until it was too late. Not just governments, either. Any management, really. They usually waited until the building was already on fire before approving the purchase of a hose.
"No," Nero replied. "This was not built as a refuge. But I am getting ahead of the story. At first, it was alarming—but not yet seen as urgent. And so governments began preparing scientific expeditions northward to study the changing climate."
Nero readjusted his scarf where it had slipped down his nose. "In New York, the great inventor Nikola Tesla gathered enough public and private investment to lead the American expedition."
The boy paused for a moment, then continued in a softer, quieter voice. Arnie had to lean in to hear him.
"That is how I came to be here. I was reborn—Lucius Astor."
He inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging an old acquaintance.
"The same given name I bore before. Coincidence of fate? Perhaps a matter for philosophers, like my dear Seneca. The Astors were not Julii, but in modern times they are… close enough."
He spoke without bitterness. Almost fondly.
"My parents were among Tesla's investors, and so they chose to join the expedition as part of that privilege. They did not survive the journey. But then," he added gently, "it is likely they would not have survived staying behind, either. Nor would I."
What struck Arnie most was how calm Nero was when he spoke about his parents' deaths.
Arnie hadn't spoken to his own father in over a year. Still, he didn't know what he would do if his parents were actually dead—gone, not just distant. He couldn't imagine his father dead.
Sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, he feared that if it happened, he wouldn't feel anything at all. Or worse—relief.
Did that make him a bad son?
And there it was again. Him. Making it about himself.
He wanted to reach out. To hug Nero. But he didn't dare.
Besides, Nero didn't look like someone who needed it.
Lost in his own thoughts, Arnie almost missed the next part.
"I know little of what happened to the world after," Nero continued softly. "News traveled poorly with the expedition. And I did not regain the memories of my former life until Tesla breached the Gate to Irem. A scion of the Astors I was—but still just a boy. Easily distracted. First by new wonders, then by grief."
He sighed before going on.
"They called it the Last Autumn, later. At first, crops failed. Then temperatures dropped too far for even the hardiest plants to survive. Famine followed. People looked south, toward warmer climates—but those lands were already inhabited. Poor lands. With neither food nor shelter to spare for newcomers."
Nero's voice remained calm, but something heavier had settled into it.
"And where charity failed, force sufficed. The British Empire turned its gaze toward India and its other colonies. The United States annexed Mexico first."
Arnie was no great patriot, but it still gave him an unpleasant twinge to hear his country—even if it wasn't quite his country—cast as a villain.
It wasn't exactly a surprise. America had already traded blood for oil. Survival would only raise the price.
"As the news that reached us grew darker and darker, a question arose: whether we should abandon the works that had nearly become meaningless and return home. Yet returning meant war, famine, and anarchy. And the journey itself would be long — through terrain even more unforgiving than what we had already crossed."
Nero paused, and Arnie could feel the weight of that decision settle on him.
"It was Tesla himself who offered a third path. Neither to continue studying the weather, nor to abandon what had already been built. Instead of a scientific mission, we were to stay. To settle. To become not merely a refuge, but a seed from which civilization might be rebuilt."
Arnie listened, spellbound. The rattling of the cage faded into the background; Nero's narration pulled him in completely. To speak would feel like sacrilege.
With a sharp gesture, Nero pointed to a large metal plaque bolted to the gondola wall, its surface etched with words.
"Able bodies and able minds will triumph over the Cold," Arnie read aloud.
It sounded a bit like the motivational posters back at ASEND. Just… sharper.
"Tesla's words," Nero said. "They are everywhere in the city. The great inventor spoke often—of how the twin engines of Progress and Efficiency would save us. Through his genius, and through everyone's toil, we would not merely survive… but conquer."
As he spoke, Nero's movements grew broader, more grandiose, his voice swelling with borrowed fervor.
Then he slumped slightly and continued, quieter.
"He burned with such conviction. And in a world grown cold, people crave fire." A pause. "They listened. And they obeyed."
Arnie gulped and couldn't help himself. "Did he lie?"
Nero shook his head. "No. Tesla was no politician, no demagogue." His voice lowered. "He believed every word."
This high up, the song of the city had thinned to a bare whisper—no longer harmony, just a distant pulse carried through metal and stone. Not comfort exactly. More like the memory of it.
After all the grim revelations, Arnie longed for something a bit more substantial.
With a dull clang, the gondola locked into place at the summit.
He blinked behind his goggles, the sudden stillness throwing him off balance. Instinctively, he glanced toward the city side—the way they had boarded. The railing was still raised and solid, framing nothing but drifting snow and open air. In the distance, he could see the top of the great steam tower. They were almost at the same level.
Not an exit.
On the opposite side, set directly into the cliff face, stood a pair of heavy industrial doors. Thick steel. Sealed tight. No windows.
Nero strode to them at once.
Arnie stepped forward to help, bracing his boots on the metal grate. That door looked heavy enough to hold back a bank robbery; surely a kid couldn't move it alone.
But Nero didn't heave. He didn't even strain. He simply planted a boot and gave a firm, efficient shove.
The massive steel slab swung inward with an almost silent, oiled glide.
Arnie blinked. Counterweights.
It made sense. The door was thick to keep the heat in, but it was balanced to open at a touch.
Efficiency.
Nero had just said it: Progress and Efficiency. In a place like this, you didn't design a door that wasted calories. Tesla wouldn't allow it.
A breath of warmer air escaped the opening, curling into steam.
"Quickly, my friend," Nero called over his shoulder. "Every moment we linger here is heat wasted."
Like a sudden punch, heat struck Arnie the moment he stepped inside. Not gentle warmth, but a blunt wall of it—heavy, close, almost physical. Heat and smell together. Strong. Unpleasant.
Nero closed the doors immediately behind them. Too immediately. The steel slab swept shut with a force that nearly clipped Arnie's coat, sealing the cold outside as if it had never existed.
The scent clung to the air, oily and thick enough to coat the back of his throat. It spread over his tongue.
He could taste it now.
And taste brought back memories. Not one, but many. Of being sick as a kid—of his father forcing down spoonfuls of fish oil, grim and viscous, because it was good for you. Father had believed firmly in its curative properties. The disgusting taste was the proof that it worked.
Arnie swallowed and resisted the sudden urge to breathe through his mouth. It wouldn't help. It was on his tongue now.
"What is this place?" he asked, almost gagging.
"Outpost Depot," Nero answered simply. Then, as he hurried forward, he continued, "There is a lake a few hours from here. Before the Great Frost, a fishing village stood on its shore."
He gestured grandly toward the far wall, as if the frozen lake were visible right through the stained wood. "The lake froze solid. The village was abandoned. Later, when Tesla City was founded, the site was reclaimed as an outpost."
"Tesla invented steam drilling machines that bore through the ice, allowing fishing beneath it. The catch is brought here from the frozen village, and from here it is sent down into the city," Nero explained, his tone sharpening slightly. "It should not be left here long enough to thaw. But Tesla took the workers with him."
Arnie hurried to keep up. The frost clinging to his coat and boots was already melting, leaving dark puddles in his wake.
In a brighter tone, Nero added, "Which is good for us. No one is here to interrupt us. Still, we should hurry. Someone will come for the fish before long."
He paused, then added darkly, "Hopefully."
Arnie already had a bad taste in his mouth, and this only added to it. But before he could comment, they reached another door—nearly identical to the one they had entered through.
Nero pushed it open with the same efficient force, and this time Arnie hurried after him before he could regret hesitating.
The oppressive heat vanished at once, replaced by a sharp, cutting cold.
As the door shut behind them, Arnie realized they had not stepped outside.
Not quite.
They stood in a large, rectangular chamber. The far end was completely open, exposing a vast, snow-covered expanse beyond, the wind knifing through the space unhindered.
The floor was divided unevenly. Along the sides ran wooden planks, worn smooth by traffic. The center was left bare—packed snow and ice instead of flooring. Heavy sleds rested there, loaded with large crates, many of them still sealed, as if waiting for hands that hadn't come back yet. Nearby, on the wooden boards, smaller carts stood where they'd been left, stacked and aligned with careful intention—but unfinished.
"They did not take the third prototype," Nero muttered, more to himself than to Arnie.
Then his tone brightened noticeably.
"Come, my friend. You are about to see a wonder."
Nero led him to a sled unlike the others.
Not just because it lacked any crates.
Where the rest were simple constructions of wood and metal—almost crude, with barely any moving parts—this one was different. More complicated. More intentional.
For one thing, beneath the sled ran a tracked assembly, connected to what Arnie assumed was some kind of engine. And strapped along the length of the sled was a long wooden pole, reinforced with metal bands, nested in sections like it could extend if needed. Its forward end was capped with a clustered crown of polished metallic disks.
It looked like a knight's lance redesigned by Doctor Doom.
Or maybe a lightning rod Frankenstein would have used to animate his monster.
A wonder was a word for it.
Arnie just wasn't entirely sure that was the right one.
"We need to push it outside before we can start it," Nero said, positioning himself at the back of the sled and beckoning Arnie forward. "The resonator cannot be raised under a roof. I say we, but it will be mostly you, my strong friend."
"Why don't you stand in front," Arnie suggested, "and make sure we don't run into anything?" It was practical. And honestly, he wasn't thrilled about making a boy push something this heavy. Especially in this cold.
"A supervisor," Nero said cheerfully. "A post entirely suitable for someone of my stature."
Under the scarf, Arnie's lips twitched in a hidden smile.
The sled resisted at first.
Its runners scraped against the ice, the sound dry and grating. Arnie leaned into it, boots sliding an inch at a time. His breath soaked the scarf with warmth, only to stiffen as it froze, and frost crept along the edges of his goggles, narrowing the world in front of him.
Slowly—grudgingly—the sled began to move.
And then easier. Faster.
"Left!" Nero shouted.
Arnie complied, the sled skidding sideways, its weight pulling against him like an unruly dog straining at a leash.
"Left!"
"Too much. Now, right."
Between Arnie's effort and Nero's shouted directions, they managed to get the sled fully outside without incident. There were a few close calls—boots slipping, the sled drifting wider than intended—but nothing struck, nothing cracked.
Then came the resonator.
Nero insisted it had to be raised before they could start. As to how—well. He had seen it done. Once. From a distance.
Arnie stared at the segmented pole and the clustered metal disks at its end, suddenly reminded of the cheap IKEA chair he'd once tried to assemble in his apartment. He'd gotten most of the way through before realizing he wasn't entirely sure what the next step was supposed to be.
The chair had never been finished. He'd pushed it into a corner instead, telling himself he'd come back to it later.
But this time, he wasn't allowed to leave it unfinished.
He moved carefully, more by instinct than understanding, fitting one section into the next and hoping he wasn't locking himself into a mistake he couldn't undo. Nero offered little help—no instructions, no corrections. Just quiet encouragement, the occasional word of reassurance.
It turned out to be enough.
With a final adjustment, the pole rose into place. It began to hum softly, a low vibration felt in his teeth more than heard, and a bluish glow crept along the metal bands, faint at first, then steady.
"We have only to mount our wondrous steed, my friend," Nero declared, satisfaction evident in both his tone and posture. "And then we are ready to embark."
"Wait—what?" Arnie asked. "You don't mean I'm supposed to drive it?"
"Who else?" Nero replied cheerfully. "I am, for the moment, too short to reach the pedals."
"I've never driven anything like this," Arnie said, the words coming out in something very close to panic.
"Well, very few have," Nero said lightly. "Tesla only finished the prototypes last week. And none of their intended operators are here."
He spread his hands.
"But you are."
"But I don't even know where to go," Arnie protested, grasping for excuses the way a drowning man grasped for reeds.
"Simple, my friend," Nero replied. "Just follow the towers."
He pointed.
Arnie looked—and saw them.
One tower stood ahead, slender and skeletal. Behind it, in the same straight line, another. And then another beyond that, barely visible through the haze.
They were tall, narrow structures—mostly wood, reinforced with metal braces—perhaps four or five stories high, by Arnie's rough estimation. Each was topped with a great spherical cap of polished metal, glowing with the same faint bluish light as the resonator.
A path, marked in electricity and faith.