Memory Seed

by Stephen Palmer

  Too late. She was gone, three figures vanishing into grey mist between the holly trees. Two would return and then the ceremony could reach its end.

  Two would return.

  The grandmother and which other?

  ~

  Dieffery is confused.

  Her problem is how to locate her enemy without being spotted. If she hides, her enemy has to come to her but she will be trapped. If she wanders, she is at the mercy of the Cemetery. And those who live in it.

  How the grandmother expects all this to be over by evening is a mystery. It could go on for days.

  And then a stroke of luck. She is peering out into lifting mist from beneath a bush when she sees the black shape of Kyne in the distance, half shadow, half trick of the light. She stands upright and creeps out into the open. No sounds nearby, just the drip-drip of raindrops falling from foliage. All she has to do is follow until she has a clear view.

  But Kyne is running, and Dieffery hurries to keep up. They cross a wide patch of grass before reaching a path of marble steps, where Kyne turns left, to make downhill.

  Dieffery pauses to point her second weapon at the departing figure. Then she throws the black pistol to the ground and says, ‘Begin.’

  A replica of herself struggles free of this soft device, like a kitten in an amniotic sac, first a miniature, shiny wet black, then, after a few seconds, a full-size duplicate wearing identical clothes. But although this is a machine made by the sentient mechanician Majaq-Aqhaj, it will only last an hour or so before the power cells in its belly run out.

  ‘Follow the black figure you just saw,’ she says. ‘When it stops to hide or prepare weapons, or to dig in the earth, pounce. It’s a woman. Kill her.’

  ‘I understand.’ The voice is poor, synthesized, metallic.

  Dieffery hastens away. She must let the replica do its work.

  The replica is equipped with optics superior to human eyesight. It will find Kyne. Dieffery follows at some distance to the right as the replica takes the marble steps two at a time. It is a long path leading down a shallow hill, and she, on wet sod, slips three times as she negotiates the mounds and the open graves. She has to keep her noise to the minimum: not easy in this appalling place.

  She stands alert at the bottom of the hill. Through a curtain of mist she sees the replica stepping off the path where a yew has fallen and blocked the way. Then a crash, a cry, and the replica vanishes into a hole. Stunned, Dieffery flattens herself upon the grass, expecting trouble.

  From behind the yew two figures emerge, then a third from the path. They run towards the hole, weapons raised. Dieffery can only stare.

  There are two Kynes.

  A second of panic, then a second of furious determination. Dieffery pulls out her other pistol, flicks the autonomous bullets out of the chamber and back into her pocket, then takes a single red bullet, which she kisses, then loads. Geleshen was only able to acquire one of these.

  One intelligent bullet, but two Kynes: a black one and a grey one.

  The three revellers are firing into the hole as the replica climbs out. Dieffery notices that it is trying to grab the ankles of one of the Kynes as the laser beams make charcoal of its plastic flesh.

  Dieffery has to choose. Surely the replica would try to grab the fake Kyne if that was who its finder-seeker inspected? The other Kyne has the correct face but the wrong clothes. This other Kynee has noticed artificial skin and metal bones; she has stopped firing. Dieffery aims and whispers, ‘Get that one,’ as she pulls the trigger.

  The replica falls back into the pit. The intelligent bullet speeds through an arc. Kyne is hit. The other two stare, look around to where Dieffery is lying, then flee.

  But Kyne is not dead yet. She manages to turn as she falls, firing at Dieffery. Just missing. Dieffery rolls, stands up, runs, dodges, as Kyne crawls away from the pit towards the yew. The autonomous bullets are back in the hand-gun. Dieffery fires. A slow black shower emerges from the pistol muzzle, to land on Kyne’s head. She drops.

  Dieffery waits.

  ~

  Two figures emerged from the mist, the grandmother and... Dieffery. Sure the revellers would cheat, Geleshen found himself first amazed, then ecstatic. He ran forward to hug his wife, both of them weeping, unable to speak yet communicating their joy and relief, while the grandmother walked on at the same pace, to stop before the effigy of Eskhthonatos and sign for calm. After a minute Geleshen noticed that the revellers were waiting. He led Dieffery back to the aisle, then sat with her in the front seat, leaving only the grandmother, Bansusen and Marashary standing.

  The grandmother spoke. ‘In the sight of Mother Clay, this afternoon, witnessed by us all, I declare the end of our ceremony.’ She paused, lowered her head and seemed to sigh. ‘For this woman and this man it is done. Let nobody declare it otherwise.’

  Marashary turned to Bansusen, raised herself on tip-toe and kissed him. As the rain intensified, pattering against innumerable leaves, and the thunder rumbled far out across the sea, the couple walked back down the aisle, followed by Geleshen and Dieffery, the revellers – a chaotic, chattering horde – and the grandmother bringing up the rear. As custom required they walked as slow as a slugs to the western gate of the Cemetery, where the grandmother threw decayed leaves and clods of soil to bless the couple, the revellers broke out into song, and Geleshen, despite the horror and the macabre moments, felt glad to see his beloved daughter smiling.

  He turned to the grandmother. ‘Will you be joining us later?’ he asked, in what he hoped was a conciliatory tone of voice.

  For a moment she seemed lost in thought, before she replied, ‘I will.’ Then she grinned and added, ‘For it is not quite over yet.’

  So the noisy throng followed Morte Street to the Spired Inn. This part of the day was something Geleshen had been told nothing about. He walked into the common room and stood amazed. All the chairs and tables had been pushed to the edge of the room, creating a huge space lit by candles, leaving the outer parts enshadowed. The bar twinkled in the light of a hundred tiny lanterns. The reveller trio had been joined by local musicians – percussionists and flute players, even a belly-dancer – and already the atmosphere was alive.

  Geleshen relaxed. He would get drunk, wake tomorrow with a hangover, then with his wife return to the south of the city.

  Soon the common room was a swaying, bouncing menagerie of drunken revellers, shouting locals, musicians standing on tables to play their solo passages, and communal dances that everybody, young and old, seemed to know. With Marashary and Bansusen ordered to dance alone in a clear space so that everybody could jig and prance in their wake, the whole inn seemed to vibrate under the impact of hundreds of feet. After ten minutes Geleshen found himself exhausted. With Dieffery he retired to sit at the far end of the bar, where Dhow-lin, quiet, almost aloof, stood preparing bottles of dooch and uz.

  Qmeela, the girl who had befriended Marashary, joined them, sitting next to Dieffery. ‘I heard what happened,’ she said.

  Dieffery nodded. ‘Someone had to lose the duel,’ she replied, adding, ‘if that was the way they wanted it...’

  Qmeela shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. You are the outsider family, joining them. How come you’re sitting here now?’

  ‘I don’t follow,’ said Dieffery.

  Geleshen added, ‘What do you mean by ‘joining them?’’

  Qmeela said, ‘When somebody from outside the Cemetery becomes part of their tribe, they have to prove they’re better. It’s a matter of pride – didn’t you see the expression of determination on Kyne’s face? If there was no duel, the two families – the two traditions if you like – might be perceived as equals. The Cemetery revellers won’t have that because their whole world, in which they survive because they’re the best, would collapse. Yes, their moral codes may be twisted–’

  ‘They are twisted.’

  ‘–but they’re codes granny keeps to the letter.’ She shrugged. ‘Cemetery revellers don’t permit
themselves to lose.’

  Geleshen frowned. ‘I accept that everybody has their own way of trying to survive,’ he admitted, ‘but we were better prepared than them, and that was why my wife won.’

  Qmeela turned to Dhow-lin and with a puzzled expression on her face said, ‘You know what I mean, don’t you? How can Dieffery have won?’

  Dhow-lin stopped pouring alcohol to glance at Dieffery. She shook her head, then walked away, flicking a cloth over one shoulder as if in a gesture of resignation.

  A hush fell across the common room. The grandmother had arrived, and for some reason, possibly a perverse sense of respect, Geleshen stood up to greet her. Conversation returned to the room. But the grandmother ignored her kin and walked straight to Dieffery, to ask, ‘Are you enjoying the evening?’

  ‘To be honest,’ Dieffery replied, ‘I’m feeling rather queasy. I expect it’s bugs in the dooch.’

  From the other end of the bar Dhow-lin called out, ‘It ain’t bugs, not this time.’

  The grandmother said, ‘Know why I’m a grandmother? Because we survive to be old. We survive to see our grandchildren. That’s why we’re the best.’ Emotion twisted her face. ‘Ain’t nobody older than me in this city.’

  Dieffery tried to stand up, but instead fell to the floor.

  And the grandmother grinned.

  ~

  Dieffery is watching Kyne’s body for twitches, flickering eyelids, any sign that life might still be in her. But the woman is stone dead and not faking it.

  She has won. Despite her fears, her terror, she has won. She must have had the Goddess on her side.

  A few minutes pass before a figure emerges from the mist, and Dieffery realises the revellers have been tracking Kyne on a location screen, possibly even monitoring her vital signs. The figure is granny, who has arrived to admit defeat. She was in communication with Kyne all the time. Nonchalant, granny moves the body with her foot, then kneels to retrieve all useful oddments, dropping them into her pocket. Quite brazen. Dieffery sees this woman for the vile thief she is.

  ‘So you won the duel,’ says granny.

  ‘I won,’ confirms Dieffery. She wants to use the word cheat, but the ceremony is not over yet and there is a risk of rubbing salt into a wound.

  Granny grunts, as if displeased with her lot. ‘Seems bad to me,’ she mutters, ‘but luck is luck, and there ain’t no tinkering with it.’ Then with a deep intake of breath she lifts herself out of melancholia, takes a small bag from her pocket and offers it to Dieffery. ‘Sweet?’

  Dieffery accepts with grace. The sweets are blobs of boiled sugar. They have an unusual flavour.

  About the Author

  Stephen Palmer is the author of seven published SF novels – Memory Seed, Glass, Flowercrash, Muezzinland, Hallucinating, Urbis Morpheos, and The Rat & The Serpent (originally published under the name Bryn Llewellyn). His short fiction has been published by NewCon Press, Solaris, Wildside Press, SF Spectrum, Eibonvale Press, Unspoken Water and Rocket Science.

  Ebook editions of all seven novels are available, most of them from infinity plus. His most recent novel, Hairy London, is published by infinity plus in December 2013. He lives and works in Shropshire, UK.