Memory Seed

by Stephen Palmer

  ‘There must be a way.’

  They discussed Zinina’s proposal for some time, until Graaff-lin threw up her hands, said she was starving, and made for the kitchen. DeKray relented eventually, and it was decided that, as soon as possible, Arrahaquen should be persuaded of their need.

  Zinina slept with deKray in the study that night: another first for her. Graaff-lin, fast asleep, knew nothing of the arrangement. Zinina kept asking herself if he really was safe. But he was too tired to make love again, so, sweating with desire just from his touch, she satisfied herself using fingers, and a well-smoothed phallus broken off one of the pleasure statues at the House of Many Splendid Lingons.

  Only one thing worried her that night. The house was creaking. In Kray, creaking houses meant stressed houses.

  ~

  In the Nonagon, the Portreeve pinged her metal dolphin. ‘Item sixteen, water supplies. Pyetmian?’

  Fat Pyetmian, dressed in blue and black silks and a dome-shaped hat that looked as if too much rain had fallen upon it, glanced at the pyuter that lay on the table at her side. ‘I must say, Portreeve, this is getting serious. Some of our superior clerical workers have only three hundred litres a day for their personal use. We must divert as much as possible from the two Water Stations. Here’s my plan. In a few days we’ll put a repeating message on the public networks, saying that new quotas are going to be enforced, and that every Krayan must have a water card to draw supplies. I’ve looked into it, and we could have these made in a day, then handed out at the Water Stations themselves, cutting down on work for us. Defenders would be entitled to, say, eighty litres a day, clerics to sixty, and independents to forty.’

  A short silence, then Uqeq asked, ‘B-b-but how would you meter the taps in their houses?’

  ‘Meter?’ Pyetmian said, frowning. ‘What meters? The idea is that they collect the water in buckets, or whatever they happen to have.’

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Ammyvryn, smiling. ‘You mean, most people won’t be able to collect all the water they’re due, and that will mean more for the Citadel? You’re turning the city’s mains off?’

  Pyetmian did not bother to respond to this fairly obvious point. Instead she said, ‘I strongly advise my plan. The pyuter work would take a matter of hours. All the Water Station data mines are available, names and the like, and all we really have to do is transport a few cartloads of plastic cards up Ficus Street and along Judico Street. Couldn’t be simpler.’

  The Portreeeve nodded. ‘Vote?’

  Nine were in favour.

  ‘And now,’ the Portreeve continued, pinging the dolphin once more, ‘the final topic, the one I expect you have all been waiting for. Omaytra, please enlighten us.’

  Omaytra was a young woman, perhaps twenty-five, with green eyes of sinister appeal, and a mouth constantly pursed, as though she was waiting to snap at somebody for being rude. She invariably wore a pale blue jumpsuit adorned with gold and amber hoops, thigh boots of black plastic with metal toe-caps, and a steel-ring belt that she claimed once belonged to a Portreeve.

  Her voice was sinuous and calm, like that of Surqjna, her friend, but not so spine-chilling as that woman’s. ‘You refer to the attack on the temple of the Goddess,’ she said, ‘the plan for which is almost ready.’

  ‘You’ve only been at it a year,’ muttered a grumpy Pyetmian.

  ‘Quiet,’ growled the Portreeve.

  Omaytra continued. ‘The attack is now confirmed. It will happen shortly, my dears, probably within two weeks. Much of our offensive force will be used and the temple will be crushed. Our forces will then leave.’

  ‘That sounds good,’ said the Portreeve. ‘I expect to hear the full plan at our next meeting. Now, I’ve got some confessions to sign. You may leave the Nonagon.’

  CHAPTER 16

  Kray sank further into its own mire.

  An announcement was made on the Citadel networks to the effect that both Food Stations would now open only from dawn until noon. That same morning a band of revellers from Eastcity led by psychotic priestesses from the temple of Pure Justice attacked the Infirmary and managed to burn half of it to the ground. The other half was rendered uninhabitable. The Citadel did nothing. It failed even to mention it on public broadcasts. A great encampment of revellers now existed where the Infirmary and the Dispensary had stood, and the district became too dangerous to enter.

  Worse was to follow. The day after, Arrahaquen noticed that none of the taps in deKray’s house was working. Nor was the shower. This did not at first surprise her, given the state of the building, but when she switched on the public bands she soon discovered that all Kray was affected: ‘... will come into effect on this day. All cards must be claimed within five days. That is the end of the Portreeve’s announcement.

  ‘The Portreeve has decreed that from this hour all fresh water allocated to citizens of Kray will be on a new scale. All water will be obtained solely from the two Water Stations. The Citadel cannot guarantee the purity of water obtained from any other source. All water will be obtained daily by means of a pyuter card tagged to kit numbers, thereby ensuring identity. These cards cannot be replaced. Do not lose them. These cards are non-transferable. The amounts of water available are, for defenders, sixty litres per day, for registered priestesses forty litres per day, and for independents twenty litres per day. These amounts are non-negotiable. All enforcements will come into effect on this day. All cards must be claimed within five days. That is the end of the Portreeve’s announcement.’

  Later that morning Zinina and deKray came to visit her. ‘They’ve only cut off the mains in the city. We’ll all have to carry our water home every day,’ Arrahaquen explained.

  As she spoke the rig died. Tubes powered off the mains faded, leaving only autonomous azure photoplankton tubes shining. ‘I’ll light some candles,’ Zinina said. She paused. ‘Of course, every reveller’s going to love preying on lines of people carying water to their homes, ain’t they?’

  Arrahaquen slumped into a chair. No water to speak of, little food and no power. This could not go on for much longer. And still no announcement of the Portreeve’s plan. In her mind’s eye she could see riots and demonstrations at the Food and Water Stations. She wondered how real these mental images were.

  Prophetic counsel was something Arrahaquen had taken very little account of during her life, she who rather despised the poor ignorants who went weekly, or even daily, to the serpents to have their fortunes told. But now she wondered. Some kind of glimpse into the future had saved her from death under Gugul Street, when she had caught flint chips in complete darkness. She had always assumed that her sense of intuition was an accurate foundation for action, but now little points of precognition seemed to dance around with fervent motion at the top of her mind, synthesising occasionally into thoughts, images, or even grander concepts. She found herself taking notice of her own unconscious, and the emotions that welled up from her unconscious, for in many cases the basic knowledge carried by her emotions was linked to more detailed understanding. She remembered the flash of joy that preceded catching the first flint chip as she hung in the leather straps.

  An experiment. She lay back and wondered what food Zinina was making in the kitchen. She thought of leeks; potato; apple?

  ‘Food up,’ Zinina called. Arrahaquen walked into the kitchen. The gas burner flickered, and there were two opened bottles of red-top water on the table.

  ‘So the taps really aren’t working?’ deKray said.

  The three sat at the table. ‘Nope,’ Zinina replied.

  Arrahaquen looked at the food; potato, some sort of mush with an onion flavour, and pear slices from an old tin.

  ‘What you grinning at?’ Zinina asked her.

  ‘Nothing. I’m just happy to be free.’

  They ate. ‘What stores have we got left?’ deKray asked.

  ‘Eighty-nine bottles of water unopened. Sixty tins, but some of them’s unlabelled, and some are rusty. About five packets of dried stuff
. Some old tea leaves. Um... that’s it, I think. Oh, about a hundred cannisters of vitamin and mineral supplements.’

  ‘Not much, then.’

  ‘No.’ Zinina smiled at deKray. ‘You’ve got a hoard. Not as much as us, but we could merge it.’

  ‘Is he going to live with you and Graaff-lin?’ Arrahaquen asked Zinina, innocently.

  Zinina frowned. ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Arrahaquen said.

  Zinina grimaced. ‘Me and deKray’s going off to get our water cards and today’s food. Coming?’

  ‘No. I’ll go out later.’ Arrahaquen tried to guess what route they might take. ‘I bet,’ she said, playing with the remains of her potato, ‘that you go down Feverfew Street up to the barbed wire, then go to the Water Station, then come back along Efcus Street.’

  ‘Why?’ Zinina asked, mystified.

  ‘I just do.’

  ‘You’re in a silly mood this morning. We’re off.’

  DeKray hesitated. Then he said, ‘We have a proposal for you, Arrahaquen. Graaff-lin requires pyuton assistance, and we remembered your replica. Do you think...?’

  Her thoughts elsewhere, Arrahaquen replied, ‘I’ll consider it.’

  Zinina and deKray were gone for an hour. When they returned, Arrahaquen learnt that they had not taken her predicted route. Zinina, being petulant, had walked down Platan Street, then Ixia Street, gone first to the Water Station and then to the Food Station, then returned along back alleys. So, Arrahaquen thought, her predictions could be changed.

  It was all about knowledge, Arrahaquen realised. Because her mind was a private entity – private like a black hole behind an event horizon – she could hide knowledge. But it was precisely because human minds were private phenomena that such concepts as truth came about. She must decide what to reveal of her prophetic ability.

  ~

  All four of them sat in the central sitting room of deKray’s old house. ‘Let’s have a supper,’ Arrahaquen announced.

  Graaff-lin did not understand. ‘A supper?’

  ‘A final supper before the end of the city. Let’s get lots of nice food, use lots of gear to get stuff, and have a wonderful time. With wine too.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Zinina said enthusiastically.

  ‘But we cannot afford to,’ objected Graaff-lin.

  ‘Would I be allowed to smoke?’ deKray asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Arrahaquen. ‘So that’s three to one in favour. Right, I’ll organise it. Let’s have it here, tomorrow night. Zinina, you get the wine and spirits from the Spired Inn. DeKray, you go down to the Harbour and barter for some fish, if there is any–’

  ‘Aamlon don’t eat fish,’ Graaff-lin said.

  Arrahaquen nodded. ‘I’ll do something special for you. Chances are there’s no fish anyway. Graaff-lin, you and I will sort out the menu. DeKray, bring things from your hoard.’

  Instructions dispensed, Arrahaquen let Graaff-lin depart to resume her serpent work. The aamlon had discovered a third pyuter heart word, ffordion, which described the noophyte group, but it was just another word.

  The day passed. Thunderstorms and torrential rain reduced activity in the city to a minimum, but next day it returned to normal – echoes of gunfire, people running up and down, rumbles as houses collapsed. Arrahaquen, hearing a crash, went out to find fallen slates in the garden. She noticed too that part of the north-facing house wall, already covered with red algae, was crumbling at the edges. A great crack ran from ground to eaves.

  Flies and mosquitoes had troubled the house for some time, but when fetching food from his maisonette deKray brought a useful little gadget, a sonic insect destroyer with adjustable range. Arrahaquen mounted it above the gas burner.

  She and Graaff-lin started cooking at dusk. DeKray and Zinina were to arrive later with the wine. The kitchen was messy. But all Krayan kitchens were made with special defences, moulded inserts wedged between units, hemispherical sinks, plastic drain covers and plugs, and under the floor bubbles of antiseptic gum that percolated through the cork tiles. All designs were meant to fight the danger of infection.

  ‘Get that pastry in the grill,’ Arrahaquen told Graaff-lin as she cut slices of reconstituted onion.

  ‘What about the vine leaves?’

  ‘Take them out in ten minutes, then put the rice on. I’ll sort out the sauces.’

  They worked on. Without running water, it was difficult. Rules taught as a child stuck; every used utensil was placed in the boiler, a tall jar filled with bubbling water, every scrap of food was put in a bin, and they wore film-plastic gloves. Graaff-lin left for a few minutes to change – Arrahaquen had insisted on everyone wearing their best clothes.

  Half an hour before Zinina and deKray were due to arrive Arrahaquen went to her room. She undressed, then laid out the clothes she had selected from her own meagre stock. She stood naked in front of a cracked mirror for a few seconds, noting that she had lost some weight, and that there were stretch marks on her belly and thighs. She put on underwear, then her only dress, a sheath of midnight blue decorated with black and purple triangles and edged with silver glitter. She pulled on a pair of low boots, black and worn but serviceable, and then studied the jewellery she had set out, intricate earrings made of tin disks and malachite, a silver ring, and her own brooch which, ironically enough, depicted a jewelled python wrapped around a gold log. Finally she pulled on a pair of violet lace gloves that reached to her elbows. The final look pleased her.

  Graaff-lin wore only a steel-grey, high-collared one-piece, with blue boots and a blue belt.

  They put the finishing touches to the meal while they waited for Zinina and deKray. Arrahaquen began to worry. A continuous racket of automatic weaponry sounded from the east of the Mercantile Quarter, where lay the ruins of the Dispensary and the Infirmary – no doubt revellers fighting over medical equipment. Then there came a rap on the door. Electrical power had been off all day; now only Graaff-lin’s battery-powered rigs worked, and the door had to be knocked upon rather than spoken to.

  Zinina was shrouded in a black cloak. But deKray, as he strode in, seemed almost suave; he wore a black shirt with a bright blue waistcoat over it, a black leather kirtle, blue calf-mufflers, black shoes so shiny there were reflections in them, and three golden bangles on each wrist that sang out musical notes wherever they touched. ‘Good evening,’ he said, presenting Arrahaquen with a crate of wine bottles. ‘These are from Dhow-lin at the Spired Inn, whence we have rushed.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Arrahaquen said.

  Zinina took off her cloak. She wore blue silk pyjama trousers caught at the ankles so they were baggy elsewhere, a translucent blue silk brassiere, and a white skull-cap. Her slippers were also white, with raffia bases and curly, pointed toes, embroidered with traditional jannitta daisies.

  Through the trousers, Arrahaquen could see a black thong. Zinina, by far the most striking of them physically, had excelled herself. There was even a small sapphire set in her belly-button.

  ‘Warm, ain’t it?’ she said. ‘Oh, the wine’s all three-year vintage, and strong stuff.’

  Arrahaquen smiled, and returned to the kitchen to prepare the first course.

  She and Graaff-lin carried four trays into the sitting room, the room with the best lights, each tray containing two bowls and a plate of wafers. ‘This is courgette and orange soup,’ she said, ‘with malted biscuits and mint dip to the side. Tuck in.’

  They did. Zinina opened two bottles of the wine and poured them all a full glass. The liquid was deep orange and had bits in it. Arrahaquen, making sure that she was watched, took an envelope from her pocket and put it on the mantelpiece, but they did not question her. She started her soup.

  ‘Here’s a good one,’ Zinina said. ‘How many Portreeves, and you’ll like this one, does it take to change a bacteria tube?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ they all pretended.

  ‘None – she gets the Citadel Guard to do it!’

&nb
sp; Laughter was forthcoming. Already Arrahaquen could feel the atmosphere becoming relaxed, yet a tear formed as she remembered the city outside. Then she took a sip of the wine and forgot it. The wine was strong; she could feel it fall down her throat. Her diaphragm seemed to thump against her breastbone, but she stifled the coughing fit.

  ‘Why,’ she said, ‘does the Portreeve never wear a hat?’

  A pause, then, ‘We don’t know. Why doesn’t the Portreeve ever wear a hat?’

  ‘Because there’s no ship with sailcloth big enough.’

  Arrahaquen was rewarded with much laughter at this old one. She noticed that deKray seemed uncomfortable, as though he was dreading being asked to crack a joke. Graaff-lin was sitting upright in her chair, seemingly happy, but perhaps not relaxed. Opposite her, Zinina had her right foot wedged under her left thigh, a glass in one hand, her other arm reaching back over her shoulder to grip the chair top; completely at ease.

  ‘What’s the difference between the Portreeve and a cablecar?’ Zinina said.

  Blank faces.

  ‘It’s very difficult to piss off a cablecar.’

  It took some time, but they laughed when they saw the point. ‘I’ll go get the main course,’ Arrahaquen said, indicating to Graaff-lin that help would be appreciated.

  In the kitchen they dropped used dishes into antiseptic water, then took the main courses in. ‘There was no fish,’ Arrahaquen said, ‘so it’s parcels of rice, carrots and basil-balls done up in vine leaves with melted butter, rice and peas on the side, nut-potato with rosemary sauce, and then mushroom sauce with a touch of wild garlic. Tuck in again.’

  The conversation left jokes and turned to other subjects: Zinina’s clothes, deKray’s maisonette, Arrahaquen’s earrings, and of course the wine and food, with Graaff-lin and deKray both making comments. Zinina was becoming ebullient. She now had both feet tucked under the opposite thigh, had somehow acquired two glasses of wine, and was eating with gusto. Arrahaquen felt her limbs becoming warm, her sight slightly blurred. She refilled her glass. Zinina opened the fifth bottle.