Feersum Endjinn

by Iain M. Banks

  In another blink, it was all gone again.

  He turned to his other self.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ said the construct. ‘The parting of the ways. You remember all you need to remember?’

  ‘How would I know if I didn’t?’

  ‘Hmm-hmm. What do you remember?’

  ‘I am going into the wilderness,’ he said, looking back at the plain.

  ‘For sanctuary?’

  ‘For sanctuary. And to seek and be sought. To provide a container, a medium for whatever I find out there.’

  ‘You will change.’

  ‘I have already changed.’

  ‘You will change forever, and may die.’

  ‘I think you will find we have always lived with that knowledge; not all our betterments have really changed such matters.’

  ‘I hope I’ve given you all you may need.’

  ‘So do I.’ He looked the other man in the eye. ‘And you, now?’

  Alan turned and glanced back to where a distant mural tower was visible through the swaying trees. ‘I’ll be back in there,’ he said. ‘Doing what I’ve always done; watching. And waiting on your return; preparing.’

  ‘Well, until then.’ He offered his hand.

  ‘Until then.’

  They shook hands, both smiling self-consciously at the physicality of the ritual, still germane even in this translation from base-reality.

  The construct nodded out at the plain, where the ghost-image of furious movement still seemed to linger.

  ‘Sorry it will be so slow.’

  ‘Slow is safe, in this.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘And you.’

  Then they each turned, and one headed back uphill on the path between the trees, making for the vast cliff of wall towering beyond, while the other set off down the slope towards the plain.

  He walked out across the semi-desert. The paths here were so densely packed there was indeed effectively one single surface. He watched dust drift behind him on a soft breeze and wondered what aspect of the crypt’s nature it signified. He stopped and looked behind him, back to where the foothills rose, sprinkled with trees. The fastness hung half-hazed in the sky beyond.

  His footprints lay in the dust, leading back to the ridge.

  He looked around and saw other footprints scattered here and there in lines that criss-crossed the plain. Above, the sky stayed blue, with no hint of cloud. He walked on, and when he first saw a stretch of ground where flat rocks lay like pages of stone upon the prairie, walked towards them and then upon them, changing his direction a little to follow the outcrop. When the rocks submerged beneath the dusty ground again he struck off in a different direction again.

  At the next group of rocks, he sat down and held one of his shoes out to one side so that he could look at the sole. The sole was composed of simple ridges running from side to side. He thought about it changing, and the pattern changed to chevrons. He did the same with the other shoe, and felt pleased that on this scale such changes could still be effected. He hefted his rucksack, wondering what might be in it but knowing better than to look. All that mattered — he could half recall being told - was that there were useful objects within it.

  He got up and continued walking.

  A few times he heard the sand and rocks around him making a high-pitched keening noise, and knew he was near one of the great data highways. He would stop and stare and the highway would be there; a vast shining pipe on the surface of the plain, roaring like a waterfall, charged with pulsing, flashing movement and itself moving ponderously, writhing like an immense snake stretching from horizon to horizon, sweeping from side to side in great loops and waves and alternately raising its semi-fluid bulk up from the ground and troughing it back down.

  The first time he encountered one of these gigantic, shimmering pipes, he sat and watched it. The accumulation of its sinuous movements gradually took it away, then started it moving towards him again. He inspected the surface of the plain, and saw where the ground had been scuffed clean by the paths the highway had taken. It reminded him of a river delta, where channels form, flood, silt and shift, and islands seem to move, shuffled across the flood by the ever-weaving braid of waters.

  He chose his spot and - more because he wanted to check that it was possible than because he particularly wanted to proceed in that direction - ducked beneath the arched under-surface of the highway as it bowed over the sand and ran, doubled up, for the far side, the highway’s great bulk a roaring shadow above him.

  It was done without mishap and he looked back at the tubular rush of the highway with satisfaction.

  He continued walking.

  A breeze got up after a while and he was grateful for it though he was not hot; the breeze was simply something different. He felt no hunger or thirst and no fatigue; realising this he started to run, and after a while did feel tired, and his breathing became laboured. He settled back to a stroll and when he’d got his breath back he increased his speed to the pace he’d been maintaining earlier.

  Darkness waxed slowly.

  When the light had quite gone from the sky he was able to see a ghostly grey image of the ground in front of him, and walked on. He stared up at the black sky and it filled with the network of lines and lights again. He watched the grid shift and the constellations change, just for something to do, knowing that somewhere inside himself he knew what this silently fabulous display signified, and unworried that its import was not quite immediately available to him, but lodged in some memorative backwater he knew he could explore if he really needed to.

  He stared at the plain and saw the great roads and tracks and highways again, though they looked a little more dispersed than they had been before.

  Most of the time he just walked, head down, hardly thinking about anything.

  After a while he felt light-headed and thought he heard voices and saw shapes that weren’t there in any reality. He started to trip over rocks or roots that were not there either, each time feeling like he was back in his earlier, biological life, and was in bed, about to fall asleep, but had suffered some involuntary spasm which had wrenched him back to wakefulness. This happened again, and again and again.

  He decided he needed to sleep after all. He found a hollow under a rocky outcrop, put his rucksack beneath his head and fell asleep.

  4

  U no whot am goan 2 do if u doan tel me whot I wan 2 no, doan u? I sez 2 thi ole crow caged in ma talinz.

  Am restin in ma big nest on thi fingir ov stoan lookin out ovir thi desirt, sittin here qwite happily pullin out thi old grey-black crows fewirs 1 by 1 wif ma free foot, hummin 2 maself & tryin 2 get sum sens out ov thi ole bird.

  I doan no nuffin! thi grey-black cro shouts. Yool pay 4 this, u peece ov filf! Set me bak whare u fownd me imeedyitly & mibi we say no moar about this — eerk!

  (I scrunch his beek a bit wif 2 ov my talinz.)

  Zhou schwine! he blubbers.

  I dcide itz time 2 fix thi old fellir wif a serius stare, so I lower my grate-beekd head doun 2 his levil & luke in thru thi talin-bars @ his litl black beedi Is. He trys 2 luke away but I hold his hed roun lukin 2wards me wif a talin & put my hed closer 2 him (tho not 2 cloas — Im not stupid). Crows cant acthurely move ther Is very much & now he cooden move his hed neethir. They’v got a thing cold a nicitatin membrane whot they can flik over ther I & this old chap’s nicitatin like mad tryin 2 blok me out & if I wozen such a fine firm fleshd-out eggzampil ov a simurg he mite blok me out (or evin takin me ovir if he woz tryin), but I am so he cooden & I woz in thare.

  I had dcided in my oan mind by this time that simurgs wer relatid 2 lammergeiers & as eny fule wil tel u lammergeiers r also nown as bone crushers. So thi ole crow lukes in2 ma mind & seez whot I intend 2 do & promtly shits himself.

  I luke @ thi mess on ma fine razor-sharp talons & ma nicely decorated nest & then luke @ him agen.

  O f-f-fuk, he whimpirs. Zhorry about that. His voyce is qwivirin. Ah wil tel u enyshink u wa
n 2 no; jhust doan do those shings 2 me.

  Hmm, I sez, liftin him up a bit 2 luke poyntidly @ thi shit on ma nest. Weel c.

  Wot u wan 2 no? he shreeks. Jhust tel me! Whot u lookin 4?

  I jab ma hed 2wards him. A ant, I tel him.

  A wot?

  U herd. But letz start wif thi lammergeiers.

  Zhi lammergeiersh? Zhare gon.

  Gon?

  From zhe kript. Gon.

  Gon whare?

  Nobudi noaz! Zhey bin weerd & dishtint 4 a while & now zhey juss aint aroun no moar. Itsh thi troof; check it out 4 yooself.

  I wil, & b4 I let u go, so u betr b telin thi troof. Now wot about this bleedin red-face fing goze gidibibidibigibi etc etc u get thi idear, eh? Whots it when its @ hoam then?

  Thi ole crow freeziz 4 a sekind, then he starts 2 shake & then he — I can hardly bleev it — he lafs!

  Wot? he shrieks, ol histerikil. U meen zhat shing bhind u, is that whot u meen?

  I shake my hed. What sorta bird u take me 4? I ask it, shakin it up & doun so it rattlz like a dice ina cup. Eh? Eh? Juss how stupid u fink I am? Do I look like a bleedin pidgin?

  Gidibidibigidigibigi! screams a voyce bhind me.

  (I feel ma Is go veri wide.)

  I stair @ thi bedraggled blak crow trapt in thi talinz ov ma rite foot.

  Anuthir time, I sez, & crush thi crow 2 thi size ov a frush.

  I whirl roun & fro thi ded crow @ whare I hope thi orribil red hed fing is, pushin maself off thi nest @ thi same time.

  Gidibidibigidigibigi! thi skind hed shrieks, & thi old ded crow explodes in2 flame & disappeers as it hits thi jaggd red hole ov thi thingz flayd nose. Thi hed’s bigr than it woz b4 & itz got wings ov its own now; wings like thi wings ov a skind bat, ol wet & bludy & glistenin. Fukr’s biggr than I am & its teeth luke sharp as hel. I beat ma wings, not turnin & flyin away but hoverin thare, starin @ it like its starin @ me.

  Gidibidibigidigibigi! it screams agen & then itz xpandin, rushin 2wards me like its a planit bloatin, a sun xploadin. Am not fuled; I no its stil thi size it woz reely & this is just a feynt. I glimpse thi reel thing cumin strate @ me like a punch throan thru thi xplodin imidje.

  This is ma nest. Thi hed’s over thi edje ov it rite now.

  I take 1 qwik flap cloaser & reach out wif a foot & slap down on a hooj white-bleechd hunk ov timber; thi timber is most ov a tree-trunk & it leevirs up in a xploashin ov smallir branchis & smaks strate in2 thi face ov thi thing goan Gidibidi-urp!

  Itz wings cloase involuntirly aroun thi tent ov branchis stikin up in front ov it & it fols flappin 2 thi nest, ol tangled & shriekin & bouncin & flappin & tearin its wingz & I juss no I shude get thi hel out while thi goans good but col it instinkt, col it madnis, I jus ½ 2 attak.

  I giv 1 moar flap 2 get a bit ov hite - noatisin that thi sky seems 2 b gettin briter — then spred ma talins & start 2 drop 2wards thi orribil hed fing.

  Thi sky’s gon very white & brite.

  I cansil thi stoop & flap 1ce more, hoverin ovir thi flappin screemin entangled hed & lookin up @ thi sky; its gon dark agen, but itz startin 2 bulje sumwot.

  O-o, I fink, & say my wake-up word 2 myself.

  Ther r certin fings witch wil impose themselvs on u evin when u r in thi depfs ov thi kript, & a xploashin is 1 ov them; Ither a very brite flash ov lite or a shok wave & certinly boaf, witch is whot I woz gettin heer. U doan ½ 2 wake up & if yoor in deep enuf u woant, yool juss xplain it away 2 yoourself evin if itz blowin u apart as u fink, but am not so daft.

  Thi blast rols me ovir in ma room, bouncin me off a taut-strung wall & flinging me bak in2 thi centir ov thi room agen.

  I luke out thi doar thru smok & flames & c men cumin down ropes from abuv thi big window in thi tower; a handful ov gies in wing-shutes r flyin in thru thi windo, hedin 4 thi scaffoldin, shootin wif guns that send bolts ov lite thru thi smoak. A slof fols flamin past thi doorway ov ma room, makin a tearin, roarin noise as it fols & leavin a trail ov thik blak smoak. Anuthir xploashin roks thi scaffoldin aroun me & thi wols bulge. I c thi lite ov big flames shinin thru thi fabric wol 2 my rite. Outside, thi gies in thi wing-shutes swing ther guns 2 1 side & reech out 2 grab thi scafoldin as they thump in2 it; ther shutes fall away as soon as they tutch.

  I rol away 2 thi bak ov ma room & bite @ thi fabric juss abuv thi floar; it holes & I hawl & pool @ it til it tares sum more then sqwirm out thru & in2 relativ darknis.

  Am bhind thi wols ov thi slofs’ scafold structyir, swingin from poal 2 poal like a munky, hedin downwirds. A hooj xploshin ov flame bursts out overhed, showerin me wif flamin debree; I ½ 2 hang by 1 hand from a poal & pat out flames on ma shirt. Thi debree fols on down, litein thi way. Ther r qwite a lot ov flaims now, & gunfire.

  Part ov ma mind is thinking, Blimey, can ol this reely b 4 me? & anuthir part is thinkin, No, Bascule, doan b silly! But thi first bit is goan, Then how cum ther’s ol this vilence & stuf happenin aroun yures truly? This aint a vilent sosiety; bags is pretti peesfil as a rool. How cum ol this is happenin ol ov a suddin? O fuk; those poor slofs woz juss tryin 2 b frendly & how do I repay them? I wunder how fings ½ shakin out 4 Gaston & ole Hombetante. Then I figir mayb its best if I try not 2 fink about that sorta fing; iss dun now.

  Amazin thi survivil mekanisms u bild up in times like this.

  Ahed ov me I can c thi curvd innir surfis ov thi wol ov thi towr, its undressd stoan & ol blak & glistenin wif moystyir in thi lite ov flames. A few last poals 2 go, regularly spaced.

  Rite hand lef hand rite hand lef hand; am in a feevir or sumthin coz I fink; juss thi time 2 kript 4 a sekind, & as I reach 4 thi next poal I fink, rite, kript until u tutch this poal, & am thare, deliberitly not finking about whare I am @ thi momint but swingin out in2 thi imeedyit locality

  /only 2 find it isnt thare eny moar.

  It’s like ther’s juss a grey fog ol aroun me; a metallic, growlin, hissin, static-ish sorta fog. I can rufly remembir whare things wer from erlyer but I doan wan 2 ½ 2 trust 2 memry that mutch. Then thi fog semes 2 collect aroun me & its like its not fog @ ol its made up not ov water but ov metil filings, metil dust, sleetin in2 ma skin like asid, burrowing in2 ma pores & it hurts & ma Is go wide & thi metil dust is sandpaperin ma Is & makin me screem & as I opin my mouf its fillin it & nose wif metil grit & am breevin it in & its fire, like breevin flame, fillin me, roastin me from inside.

  I flail out @ it, tryin 2 push it away & my hand tutches sumfink solid & I remember that means sumfing & wif a struggil I wake up.

  My hand clutches thi cold bar ov thi scaffold poal & I feel thi bref whistel out ov me & I sneez & my Is watir & my skin itches evrywhare & I juss manidje 2 grab thi last poal & then fump in2 thi blak stone wol & stop thare, stil shakin & not feelin 2 good.

  Thi floar is a cupil ov metirs lower down, coverd in rubish. Lukin up, thi wol disappers in2 darknis. On ither side, it curvs away, blak & barely visibil. Thi slofs’ scafoldin structure fits raggedly agenst thi wol, poals stuk restin on bits whare thi ruf stone juts out & thi grey sakclof stuf flappin in thi breez. Thi channil I escaiped down rises like a naro blak canyin abuv me. Flames burn in thi distins.

  I try 2 remember thi layout ov thi place from thi start ov my kriptin erlyer. Bleedin hel.

  I shake my hed, then start leepin acros from poal 2 poal along thi side ov thi ruf stoan wol. Shude b this way . . .

  & so I go swingin off thru thi dark space behind thi wols ov thi place whare thi slofs hang out, or @ leest did until theez gies wif thi guns & parashoots & stuf caim collin.

  Am a rat bhind thi bleedin wols, I fink, skurryin abuv thi rubish lookin 4 a hole 2 disapeer down.

  O deer Bascule I think 2 myself, not 4 thi furst time & Ive a orribil feelin not 4 thi last time neethir. O deer o deer o deer.

  SEVEN

  1

  They descended through the tower by lift and went through broad, softly lit tunnels lined with pictures to a place where there were lots of trains and people and pillars which held the roof up.

  Asura asked man
y questions about the lift and the station and the trains and the castle. The tall lady did her best to answer them. They went to the very end of one train and got on it. They had the carriage to themselves. It had lots of big seats and couches. They sat at a round wooden table; the woman who had introduced herself as Ucubulaire sat beside her and the man called Lunce sat across from them.

  ‘What’s that in your hair?’ the woman said, when they were seated, and reached one hand - covered in the blue-net glove - up behind her head.

  ‘What?’ Asura asked. Then the blue glove touched the back of her head and there was a strange buzzing noise.

  Darkness.

  She lived in a tall tower in the forest. The tower had one large room at the top where she lived. The room had a stone floor with no holes in it; the walls had some small windows, and one door which led out onto a balcony which went all around the tower. The very top of the tower was made from a big cone of dark slates, like some huge hat.

  She woke each day and went to wash her face. She washed from a bowl on a stout wooden wash-stand. Beside the bowl was a pitcher which was always full of water every morning. Several times she had tried to stay up to see how it got refilled every night but although she had been sure she’d stayed awake each time she never found out. Once she had sat up with her hand in the empty pitcher, pinching herself every now and again to stay awake, but she must have fallen asleep because she woke with a start to find her hand submerged in water. Another night she turned the pitcher upside down and slept beside it, but all that happened was that no water appeared in it that night and she went thirsty the next day.

  There was a bread box on another table, and every morning there was a fresh loaf in it.

  Each day she would use the pot under the bed and cover it with a cloth and each morning it would be empty and clean.

  There was a beaten-metal mirror on the wash-stand. She had light brown skin and dark brown eyes and hair. She was dressed in a light brown shift that never seemed to get particularly dirty, or any cleaner. She looked at her reflection for a long time sometimes, thinking that once she had looked different, and trying to remember what she had looked like, and who she had been, and what had brought her here. But her reflection didn’t appear to know any more than she did.