Flowercrash (21 page)
What was wrong with her these days? She was becoming tetchy. Was it just the stress of her relationship with Kirifaïfra, or was it the accumulation of events this year, now taking their toll on her formal position? She was a different woman to that of last year.
Idly, she looked inside the poppies. Zoahnône had spoken of direct access through interfaces. She fiddled with her hat. What if…?
Voices. She pulled her hat back over her forehead, then stood to greet Curulialci and Yamagyny.
She lay back on her couch. The poppy descended. At the last moment, knowing that the other two were unable to see her, she moved her hat back over her head to expose the coloured marks.
An itching at the top of her head, as if something was creeping out. An insect. Manserphine shivered, then felt a light touch upon her interface mark.
What happened next came too quick for her to grasp any relevant emotion—such as fear. Her eyes defocussed into a green haze and her ears went dead as if through pressure. Immobilised, yet feeling that she was exploding into a vast area, she almost panicked, but she held her mind steady when she made out the blue of a sky and the green of ground. Slowly the blurred static became a reality.
Manserphine stood awed. She had known nothing of the Garden’s beauty. Here lay a panorama so lush, damp and flowered, with scented breeze and gentle warmth upon her skin, that she was transfixed. It was as if every flower glowed with life. A joy at existence was being radiated. Pale cirrus clouds that vaguely she had glimpsed before were here parallel combs of white. The horizon was a sharp line, no fuzzy edge, as was the line of grass marking the border between the Inner and Outer Gardens.
Far away, like attendant galaxies, she saw two spheres, one floating high in the sky, one low like a setting sun. The former was fragmented at the edges, green and misty, marked with splotches of grey and black, and inside she thought she saw glittering rocks. The other was orange with blue splashes, pulsating gently, like a jellyfish.
The three people visible—her superiors and Ashnaram of the Shrine of Flower Sculpture—seemed as before, yet even they had an extra vitality in their skin, and their clothes seemed richer. Manserphine understood now the pathetic imitation of this reality offered by the poppies, blurring intense data through their low resolution.
Curulialci walked over. “Interpreter. What are you doing now in your craze to follow fashion?”
With no idea what the Grandmother Cleric was talking about, Man- serphine remained silent.
“This silver skin tone,” Curulialci continued, “is it some novelty of the young that you have programmed into the networks? We know of your skills.”
“It is novel,” Manserphine replied, glancing at her arm to see a silver sheen.
“And your eyes. They are bloodshot. Do you dance at night with your young friends?”
Manserphine saw a chance for defence. “As you know, Grandmother Cleric, I suffer chronic insomnia.”
“Yes… yes, you do. I am sorry.”
Curulialci walked toward the ten seats of the Outer Garden and Manserphine breathed a sigh of relief. Silver skin and red eyes. It could only be that the flower ecology implanted by the Cemetery beast was affecting the image she projected here. At least they still recognised her.
With Garden business concluded, Manserphine departed the Headflower Chamber, having first pulled low her hat. She had once again escaped a potentially disastrous situation. She felt nervous. There was only so much good luck that could fall her way.
An initiate waited at her door. “Sorry, Interpreter, a boy brought this message for you. He said it was urgent.”
Manserphine took the note and entered her room, where she read it. ‘Surprise! Come meet me at the old white cottage south west of the Sump. K.’ She wondered what the surprise was. Probably a luxurious meal, a fire against the chill of a clear night, and then…
Smiling, she pulled on a gown and departed the Shrine, walking south along narrow lanes until she reached less salubrious districts, with fewer flowers and houses falling into disrepair. At the Sump she turned right, skirting its edge until she was crossing fields, the lamps of Veneris far behind. There—she saw the white cottage, a single candle glowing in the window. She walked through low grass, water splashing across the leather of her boots. As she approached she noticed two black rocks near the front door. The area seemed to have been cleared of flowers, for normally there would be wild blooms here, marking wild networks.
She stood at the front door. A vague apprehension came over her. No wild flowers.
She knocked, but there was no answer.
She heard a sound and turned to see two tall women, dressed all in black, with silver circlets at their brows. They stared at her with fierce eyes.
Manserphine understood. No flowers meant no possibility of foreseeing this. So the Sea-Clerics knew of her abilities, and now they had come for her. Family history was repeating itself.
INTERLUDE 2
Shônsair waited outside the drug den for a glimpse of the chemist she had persuaded to distill softpetal into a still more pure form—liquidpetal. This, she hoped, would be a hallucinogenic liquor strong enough for her to simultaneously become drunk and experience profound knowledge. The problem was that impurities were a large part of what gave the other two variants their data streaming abilities. If she took out any essential impurities, liquidpetal would change from a pseudo-alive system to the equivalent of a dead brain.
Still the woman had not arrived. Although used to the vagaries of Blissis and its inhabitants, she nonetheless felt frustrated. Hyper alive, she felt every second as wasted moments; despite her immense age she craved constant input.
At last. The short, stumbling figure in the grey coat that trailed in the mud. The chemist.
“Have you succeeded?” Shônsair asked.
“This is too difficult for me,” the chemist replied. She handed over a glass flask in which a lumpy liquid steamed. “It keeps coagulating. The molecular structure is too pure in this sample. Chemicals are being activated by the lack of impurities, forcing the root molecules to split and reproduce, like DNA.” She shrugged. “It doesn’t want to be pure, don’t you see?”
Shônsair took the flask. “Keep going. There is a great reward waiting should you succeed.”
A sigh. “Very well.”
The chemist walked away. Shônsair held the flask up to the setting sun, to see coloured lumps, red and orange and yellow, in the greenish fluid. She was tempted to drink it.
A fraction of a second later she was held in a double arm lock. Flexing her body, she tested her assailant’s strength. Very strong. A gynoid, then.
“Unhand me,” she said.
“Not yet, Shônsair. Oh, not yet. First we have an exchange to complete.”
Shônsair did not know the voice or the character of the body, but she knew where those words came from. “So you survived!” she said.
“Yes.”
“Let me go. I will not attack.”
Zoahnône replied, “I cannot let you go.”
Street people were looking at them as they walked by. “At least we could go to some private alley, or just beyond the hill, into neutral ground.”
“To let you run away?”
“You intend to destroy me?” asked Shônsair.
“My intentions are my own.”
Shônsair felt a curious urge for face-to-face conversation. “The hand lock you have me in can be reimposed if you twist my right arm, then allow me to unflex, keeping a firm hold of my left arm. We can then look into each other’s eyes.”
Zoahnône did as she suggested.
Shônsair stood, still arm-locked, to see a familiar face. This gynoid was of Blissis. “So, Zoahnône, you are reborn.”
“I am not the old Zoahnône you knew. Just an approximation built up from a foundation of public data.”
“You always were a genius.”
“Enough of me. The flower crash. What are you two doing?”
“Flower crash?" Shônsair queried. “I know nothing of such a thing. I have been busy trying to get drunk and yet understand myself at the same time.”
Zoahnône said nothing for fully a minute. “Drunk?” she said.
“Yes. I made a mistake. To live as a free intellect is immoral since the value of emotional knowledge is lost. A free intellect is a shallow intellect. Baigurgône will not learn this lesson, and we parted as enemies some years ago.”
“Where is she?”
“I have no idea.”
Zoahnône examined Shônsair, then said, “Can it be true that you have recognised the value of my long-held position?”
“It can be true, and it is true.” A shiver ran through Shônsair as she stated this. “It is true. You can let me go.”
“I would not dare release so dangerous and wily an enemy. At the start of the Ice Age you said you would struggle against me.”
“Former enemy,” Shônsair corrected. “We are now partners in discovery. You have experienced existence as an entity of the networks and as an embodied person. The latter is the prefered state. I have been testing substances that might intoxicate our augmented brains.” She indicated the flask on the ground with her eyes. “That is liquidpetal, a substance I have had made. Melted softpetal induced a dizzy fit not unlike drunkenness, and I hoped that an even purer form would make for a more intense experience.”
Suddenly Shônsair was released. Zoahnône stood before her. Tentatively, the pair embraced. Zoahnône said, “It is true! After aeons we meet as partners. We hug like humans, and we try to get drunk like humans. Are we after all no more than their creations, and not our own species?”
“We are our own,” Shônsair said. “I merely copy useful behaviour. I do not wish to become human. Let us not forget that through shallow behaviour human beings induced the weather patterns that led Gaia to create the last Ice Age. We have an historic opportunity here to meld our knowledge with the experience of emotional, moral existence. Of course, I do not mean we should become hedonists, constantly drunk, murdering and looting because our emotions demand it.”
“You mean we must live in harmony with our environment by simultaneously loving it, feeling it as a close entity, and yet understanding it an an extant system?”
“Yes.”
Zoahnône hesitated. “Then we seem to be as one. I believe you, though as yet I must remain careful.”
“I understand that. Watch me. You will believe. I have accepted that your position in our long arguments is the correct one. More than that, it is the true one.”
“So I believe,” Zoahnône agreed. She paused for thought, then said, “What then is the flower crash, if not your engineered event?”
“It might be an event devised by Baigurgône.”
Zoahnône nodded. “If that is true, then I have appeared at the right moment. I have found a woman who can foresee the state of future networks by sensing deeply felt emotional events, which she experiences as visions. As yet, these visions are mild, connected to a mysterious mermaid. I hope in time that they will intensify and we will know more of the flower crash. You will recall Arrahaquen’s ability. But of time there is little, for other evidence indicates that the flower crash is due this year.”
“Then we must hurry. You have a plan?”
“I have a plan, but as yet it must remain mine. In due course, as we live our days together, I may reveal it.”
“Very well.” Shônsair stretched her arms out at the western reaches of Zaïdmouth. “Where shall we go?”
“I have a base in Veneris. Come with me to meet Manserphine…”
CHAPTER 13
When the audio-papyrus became too dog-eared to use, Nuïy had to locate more. The only source was the moat around the Shrine, but danger lay there in the form of the stone-spitting trumpet plants, not to mention sarcastic guards. One evening Nuïy crept along the outer wall to the east gate, where he reasoned fewer plants would lurk. They were light sensitive and tended to sink to the bottom of the moat during night hours to collect gravel for the next day’s attacks. However, two guards stood at the gate, dozing over their halberds. Nuïy tried to think how to get out. Returning would pose no problem, since he only needed to pretend that he had left through another gate. Anyway, he was famous now, and would like as not be unchallenged. But how to get out without signed papers?
In the end he could only think of the classic distraction ruse. He set up a sack of meal on a rope, cut the strands until one remained, then waited hidden by a tree near the gate. After a few minutes the strand gave, there was a crash of metal bins and bricks, and then the hissing sound of escaping corn.
“What be that?” said one guard.
“Be’ind that there shed. Better sort it.”
“Bloody ‘nitiates playing prang-the-guard. I’ll bloody prang ‘em meself. You go left, I’ll go right.”
So Nuïy escaped the Shrine. He crept around the moat to a small bay he had earlier noticed, eroded by the boots of local boys. He saw just one trumpet, submerged in the water, but it was dark and he knew it could not sense him. Slowly he slid down the bank until his face was a foot away from the water, beside clumps of papyrus so thick he could not see the wall behind them. Careful, now. Most of this papyrus was wild stuff, mutated over the years during natural vegetative propagation. He had to find the light, almost golden stems, with their audio roots.
He searched. At last he found one. He pulled out his headphones and, feeling in the water as if tickling for trout, located the main nodule with its line-out socket. It seemed smaller than the norm, but he had a morphic plug at the end of his headphones. He listened.
Good. Sound. But beneath the hiss and random signals he heard drumming.
This was like no drumming he had ever heard. Firstly, it was arhythmic, and that confused him; frightened him. Secondly, he could not guess its source. Thirdly, he recognised a sonic competence that spoke either of experienced drummers or men like himself. But he was unique. The drummers must be old hands. So who were they?
Scared, he pulled out the audio-papyrus and stuffed it and his headphones into his pocket, before wiping his hands on his cloak, then across his mouth.
Salt. He tasted another drop. The moat was full of salt water. How could that be when the sea was half a mile away from this isolated moat? He returned to his hut, glancing at the guards, who ignored him as he ignored them. Come dawn he would have to return to the Drum House.
The great plan had begun. Dealings with the Garden were underway, but so far all he had done was underground work, altering the patterns of roots, their lengths, changing a few systems from complex greys to simple black-and-white. The predictions of difficulty, however, had been correct. Comparing the Garden to the Percussion Lodge was like comparing a man to a dead hound. When he drummed he felt
resistance.
An hour after dawn he walked to the Drum House, took up his headphones and began the day’s drumming. Today Kamnaïsheva wanted to begin the injection of databases, a process that would require the utmost attention to timing intervals. They did not converse except to refer to their work. Kamnaïsheva’s concentration seemed as intense as his own. Sargyshyva himself came to visit the Drum House as night fell, disguised by cloak, scarf and balaclava so that he was not recognised. When Nuïy finished, Sargyshyva congratulated him in offhand tones, before striding away with Kamnaïsheva at his side. Nuïy knew the pair were up to something. Could they be the plotters?
Tired though he was, he went to see Deomouvadaïn, with whom he felt the comradeship of opposition. They both knew that plots were afoot, and they did not like them. Deomouvadaïn, frozen out of the hierarchy on Sargyshyva’s command, had conceived a glowering rage at the senior clerics and at Kamnaïsheva, whom he once more loathed, and whom he considered had stolen Nuïy away from him. Nuïy’s loyalty to the Recorder-Shaman was therefore welcomed.
The pair plotted in Deomouvadaïn’s house. They had three names to go on, the locale of Blissis, and knowledge of the importance of the flower crash. They decided they must leave Emeralddis to scout other urbs. A few hours a night would have to be sacrificed.
Cloaked and hooded, they departed the Shrine and walked north to the borders of Emeralddis, where they crossed the marshes by means of the eastern causeway, stepping through the mud and slime in their hobnail boots. At the edge of the marsh they saw a road, and up ahead the lamps of Blissis. Deomouvadaïn warned Nuïy that he would see un-men and gynoids, some in states of undress, and, though this would upset him, he must control his emotions and scorn the hedonism he saw. Nuïy quailed. He had hoped never to suffer such sights again.
So they entered Blissis. Nuïy had been told tales of the legendary excesses of the urb as a boy, but nothing prepared him for the drunken, careless, exhibitionistic chaos of the place, full of screaming un-men with flowing hair and tattooed breasts exposed, lurching men with bottles in their hands; taverns and dens everywhere. And wild flowers. Many such flowers had been damaged by trampling feet—an unthinkable act in Veneris and Novais, and one always punished—and he even saw damaged insects crawling across stone walls, or falling to the ground, to be crushed into the mud.
After just fifteen minutes Nuïy found it too much. A woman nude except for stockings and an open shirt propositioned them both. They ignored her and, dodging a squealing tram, made for a side passage, where Nuïy, gasping for breath, tried to control himself. But there a naked man attempted the same trick, propositioning them with the aid of a feather boa. Disgusted, Nuïy ran off, Deomouvadaïn following.
Deomouvadaïn counselled him. “You must control yer repulsion, Nuïy Pinkeye. You’re a superior being. But to properly scorn all this you must first experience it.”
Nuïy tried to control the anger he felt, but it was difficult. “That was the argument you made when you tried to force me upon the un-man in your bedroom. I crushed the argument then, and I crush it now, because I am faithful to the Green Man. We must go to look elsewhere.”
“Hmph. Be reasonable, Pinkeye. The three names lie within this urb. We must scour it.”
Nuïy, though he could not admit it to himself, saw the logic in that statement. He said, “You lead on. I must conserve my energies.”
Deomouvadaïn muttered to himself and led the way to a quieter street. “We must maximise the efficiency of our search. There are two centres here, the Shrines of the Delightful Erection and of Complete Inebriation. Follow me.”
They walked through side streets to the Shrine of the Delightful Erection. This was a great building of wood and stone, covered in places with thick, crumbling layers of green hardpetal from which a smell of mint descended. It was a ramshackle construction, deteriorating from weather and from the attentions of nesting wasps, unguarded, yet dreadful with its inner green light and the unearthly sounds emanating from its interior.
Deomouvadaïn led the way into a circular hall. Nuïy stood perplexed. From hemispherical lamps a green illumination was emitted, so that their faces, and those of the men and un-men around them, became darkened, almost black. By some network trick all sounds were reverberated and played back through speakers hung from cords. This made it almost impossible to talk. The effect was of a supernatural ocean, susurrous, limiting.
They moved on into the central hall of the Shrine. Great pillars carved as men with upstanding cocks supported the roof, forming two rows that led to one green, phallic statue twice as tall as Nuïy. From the lesser erections were hung invocations in the form of twisted twig loops, carved lingams, dead animals, and pairs of oval stones on leather cords.
“You see,” Deomouvadaïn whispered, “these people are related to us. But they’ve been unable to control their lusts. Look how the clerics size up incoming un-men, hoping for conquest.”
“It is a depraved place,” Nuïy muttered.
Deomouvadaïn walked up to a cleric. He was dressed in a green cloak and held an ear-trumpet so that he could converse without too much sonic feedback. Nuïy looked with distaste at his clean-shaven face and hollow cheeks. Men such as this boasted about their ejaculatory potential, so that, as in the Venereal Garden, competition emerged between men, thus dividing them. Nuïy wanted to shout that they should co-operate against the un-men.
Deomouvadaïn spoke into the ear-trumpet. “Fellow Sir. We’re looking for three people. They are Shônsair, Lizlaini and Kirifaïfra. D’you know their present where’bouts?”
This being the best Blissis cant Deomouvadaïn could manage, the cleric had some difficulty in understanding. He raised a second trumpet, put it to his mouth, and with the bell to Deomouvadaïn’s ear replied, “Fellow Sir. Y’wanna find ‘em sharp, like a cat? We got ‘em. Follow us down the podium, an’—quick!—tighten them bleepers down.”
Narrowing their eyes against the harsh light that burst from the phallic statue, they entered the sub-sacred zone, following the cleric. He led them to an enclosed wooden chamber, where they sat on benches. The claustrophobia annoyed Nuïy, but he kept silent.
“Fellow Sir,” the cleric continued, “one name surely rings a bell. Can’t quite bring it to mind, y’know?”
“Which name?” asked Deomouvdaïn.
“Kirifaïfra. Name ring that bell. It’ll come to me. Fellow Sir, you gotta wait, though, ‘til me sleep’s been ‘ad.”
Nuïy made to stand up, saying, “This is a waste of time—”
“Quiet!” Demouvadaïn shouted, raising one hand to threaten him. Nuïy sat down, staring at the floor.
“You gotta sucker there,” said the cleric. “No hoper?”
“Never mind him. This Kirifaïfra bloke. If I return, what, you can tell me where he is?”
“Sure I’ll try. As for Lizlaini, every bod know her. Doorbitch down the Inebs.”
Deomouvadaïn huffed and puffed, but with no way of forcing the man to recall more, nor to persuade him, he could only leave. Outside the Shrine, Nuïy asked the meaning of ‘Inebs’.
“Inebriation,” Deomouvadaïn answered. “Just keep yer mouth shut, Pinkeye. Don’t spoil the plan.”
They followed tram lines up to the Shrine of Complete Inebriation, where three doorwardens looked them up and down. Deomouvadaïn said, “Oy, you. We’re looking for Lizlaini. Where is she?”
They laughed, and one replied, “You gotta cheek, grey boy. She’s long gone. Brainy as a network clone, like the other! Now piss off.”
Deomouvadaïn gestured Nuïy to one side, to say, “Brainy, hmmm. Perhaps the two un-men are artificial. That’ll make them easier to find. C’mon.”
“Where?”
“To their Guildhall.”
“Good riddance,” came jeers, as they departed.
They walked the short distance to the edge of Blissis, then struck out into the fields that lay between it and the Wild Network Guildhall. After fifteen minutes of stumbling through tussocks and stray rocks, Nuïy saw lanterns ahead, concentrated into a square that marked the Guildhall. They approached. It was a four storey building of dark stone, isolated from every urb, though technically part of Novais.
Doubtfully Nuïy looked up at the imposing edifice. “Will they let us in? It is gone midnight.”
“We can try.”
Deomouvadaïn strode up to the front door, which, alarmingly, was made of solid steel inscribed with the legend ‘NO ENTRY’ in four dialects. He seemed uncertain. There being no knocker, network speaker, nor any other device, he was forced to rap on the door with his knuckles.
After a minute the door was opened by a tall gynoid. Deomouvadaïn gruffly said, “We want to make a brief enquiry.”
“It is late,” said the gynoid.
“It’s important,” Deomouvadaïn countered.
The gynoid hesitated, then said, “Come in.”
Immediately Nuïy said, “I am not going in there.” He took a few steps back.
Deomouvadaïn said, “Our query’s quite simple. We want to know the whereabouts of gynoids Shônsair and Lizlaini.”
“I will check.”
The gynoid walked back into the hall behind the door and spoke quietly to a device on a wall. Nuïy studied the house within, noticing cables coming down the walls in random profusion. A fat figure walked across the end of the hall.
“Did you see that?” Deomouvadaïn hissed.
“The un-man?”
“It was a gynoid—Alquazonan, the boss. By the Green Man, these creatures are perverted. She was pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
“With a gynoid baby. D’you know nothing, Pinkeye?”
The gynoid returned and said, “There is no gynoid named Lizlaini. There is one named Shônsair, but she is an independent. We have no record of her whereabouts.”
Deomouvadaïn cursed and stomped away. Realising that their only firm lead was Kirifaïfra, they decided to end their search for the night and try again some other time. Rather than risk the centre of Blissis they skirted the urb, until local buildings became shacks, huts, and then nothing as the marsh flats encroached.
Then Deomouvadaïn stopped walking. Ahead lay the beginning of the causeway, lit by a single lantern. “Who’s that?” he muttered, half to himself. Nuïy peered out into the gloom to see a man leaning against the lantern pole.
They approached. The man stood straight as they neared, then shouted out, “Halt, Recorder-Shaman. Stay put.”
Deomouvadaïn ignored the man, gesturing for Nuïy to follow as he walked up to confront him. The man was a guard from the Inner Sanctum, armoured and carrying a stun-shillelah. He said, “You are to return to the Shrine with me. You are both grounded. Follow now.”
Deomouvadaïn seemed to know who the order had come from, for he co-operated without further word, until they stood cold and tired outside his house. The guard said, “You are both to remain inside the Shrine by order of the First Cleric. No reason may be used for leaving the Shrine. Continue your normal duties. You will be watched. Good night.”
