Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  The voices were near. The sound of his own breathing seemed to fill his world. He was convinced they would be caught. Dark faces would appear, eyes would see him.

  Reality seemed to be notched. His consciousness was cracking. He could not feel his hand. He found himself stumbling up stairs, Cuensheley at his side, the sound of harsh breathing in his ears. His arm ached.

  ‘Shush!’ Cuensheley hissed. Somebody walked past. He did not know if he was hiding or awaiting capture.

  Then they were in the room through which they had entered. Cuensheley put boxes at the grille and pushed him up. With great difficulty he scrambled out through the gap, aware that he must not knock his right hand. The reeking Crayan air brought him around – he knew they had escaped. Almost. He heard the crash and squeal of heat exchangers and local electronic installations, and he wished for silence. Staring, he surveyed the alley for passers-by: nobody. Then Cuensheley stood at his side.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ she asked, her mouth at his ear. ‘We haven’t got long. I’m going to have to loosen that tourniquet. Stand still.’

  He submitted to her expert aid. The ache in his hand became an unbearable throbbing, deep inside his flesh it seemed, a bone-ache that made him want to shake his limb off to free himself. He groaned, bent double. He felt Cuensheley adjusting the tension of the tourniquet.

  ‘Quick,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to get to the Copper Courtyard as soon as we can. Can you walk?’

  He could not answer; his jaw was clamped. He nodded. There was no pain, just the ache, the worst ache he had ever felt. He smelled blood again. When a light mote storm passed through the street perspex he saw pools of red, lit like miniature sunsets. There was blood everywhere.

  ‘They’ll follow us,’ he managed to gasp.

  Cuensheley wrapped his wounded hand in her jacket, then pulled him away from the Archive wall, hurrying him to the end of the alley, checking for crowds – there were no mobs, but some groups of people walking to and fro – then, with the injured hand slung as well as was possible in Dwllis’ coat, leading him along the street. Nobody paid attention to them; they were too busy watching Selene’s clerks in dispute with the noctechnes. As they hurried along Hog Street and Culverkeys Street they saw a great variety of people; lone demagogues, crowds listening to the lunar clerks, sinister noctechne squads with their cloak-fins erect, Triaders out with shovels and cloths attempting to clear up the piles of glass. As they followed Platan Street around the Swamps, Dwllis noticed that vitrification was beginning to attack houses even here, and there were many pitch black alleys where luminophage clumps had done their worst.

  They stumbled into Sphagnum Street, mercifully quiet, then made along the passage leading to the Copper Courtyard. It was midnight, and nobody remained inside the quadrangle. Dwllis collapsed.

  Then he heard Cuensheley and Ilquisrey at his side. The tourniquet was loosened: the ache became unbearable and he rolled and groaned, a rhythmic motion, unable to stop. The bandage was off. He felt blood soak his clothes.

  He felt faint now, aware that he was being saved, knowing the two women were to his left and his right, not knowing what they were doing. He lost consciousness for brief seconds, then came round, then fainted again.

  ‘His gums are white,’ Ilquisrey said.

  He looked into her eyes. Her jet black fuzzlocks were tied into a bun. Her oval face with its mysterious kohl-circled eyes loomed close over him. Her breath stank of alcohol.

  ‘Hold that bandage,’ Cuensheley demanded.

  ‘Has he gone?’

  Dwllis hovered around unconsciousness. He realised that he had been transferred to a soft couch, but he did not know where: in a room somewhere. Somewhere warm.

  ‘Chew this,’ Ilquisrey said, thrusting a spongy mass into his mouth.

  He thought it must be qe’lib’we, but the taste was bitter, painfully bitter, with a throat-clearing burn like bad wine. He coughed, spraying the stuff everywhere. They thrust more into his mouth. He opened his eyes to see Ilquisrey carrying a large tray full of coloured lumps.

  ‘Drugs!’ he croaked.

  ‘Shut up!’ Cuensheley replied.

  ‘We’re experts on drugs,’ Ilquisrey said. ‘You’ll be all right.’

  Dwllis relaxed. ‘Don’t be angry at me, please,’ he said.

  Cuensheley bent down and hugged him. ‘What has that beast done to you?’ Her tears wetted his face.

  Dwllis could not look at his hand, lacking the strength. ‘Bit it off,’ he gasped. ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Home,’ Cuensheley said: and even in his state Dwllis heard the sourness in her voice. He chewed, glad he did not have to say anything.

  ~

  The hours until dawn – he knew it was dawn because the walls and roof of the room in which he tossed and turned grew crimson – he spent slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness, aware that women were sitting near, remembering now and then who they were, but never able to ignore the ache in his hand. The throbbing ebbed and rose. The substances he was given reduced the pain, but they robbed him of sleep and made him hallucinate. Once, he imagined that he was back inside the Archive, chased by glass-wielding gnosticians, and fat, lolloping agnosticians with infant papooses on their backs. Nor was he ever able to forget the scream of the gnostician that had attacked him. The sound echoed through his mind like a wail in a cave.

  Shortly before midday Ilquisrey entered his room carrying a tray on which a large mug steamed. ‘Tea,’ she said. Her voice sounded sympathetic. Dwllis felt a sudden urge to know her. He had not realised it until now, but, alone with his nightmare, he was desperate for companionship.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Strawberry tea laced with morphino and aq’ailbar.’

  ‘What are those substances?’

  ‘An analgesic and a relaxant.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You need relaxing,’ Ilquisrey said, opening his mouth and making him sip the tea. Some minutes later he had finished it. The fire of it burned his throat and stomach. ‘Yes, it is strong,’ Ilquisrey said.

  He asked her, ‘Was that qe’lib’we you gave me earlier?’

  ‘Oh, no, something much more dangerous.’

  ‘What?’

  She stroked his sweating forehead. ‘You’re so pale. You lost a lot of blood. But Mum thinks you’re brave.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘She often talks about you.’

  ‘What does she say?’

  With a sly grin Ilquisrey answered, ‘I think you’d better ask her yourself.’ She stood, loosened her black fuzzlocks so they tumbled down her back, thrust her hands into her pockets, then left the room humming to herself.

  CHAPTER 8

  Umia knelt on the floor of his chamber, peering into the lower hemisphere. Was this where the voices came from? He examined the riot of mud, sand and weird white plants of local origin, plants that did not need the light of the sun to create food but instead used the energy of sound and vibration. The light of pink glow-beans showed nothing suspicious.

  Now he stood alone. And yet two disembodied voices counselled him, arguing this way and that.

  ‘What should I do about the glass?’ Umia said out loud.

  Gaijin, the lighter, more reedy voice said, ‘You can do naught about it, O Reeve. Glass comes inside your Cray, like the wind through open bars, and an overcoming is inevitable.’

  Lune, whose voice chimed deeper in Umia’s mind, like an old bell, said, ‘Do not listen to Gaijin, for she spouts the counsel of the desperate, the desolate. Your Archivists work night and night to create the bacteria that will remove the luminophages from the world, and they are close to success. Umia, you listened to me when I advised you to create the sonoplasts, and you did right. Do not ignore me.’

  But Gaijin said, as Umia in an agony of indecision leaned over a table and cradled his head, ‘O Reeve, you listen to Lune, yet the selenic pervert all natural justice. The noctechnes do hale work, do they not? O for the me
moirs that you have to rule over all.’

  ‘Yes,’ Umia said, ‘Noct must prevail, but what about my people? They scream and crush in the streets, they are slashed by glass, they are attacked by metal tapeworms and silver grubs emerging from the very walls. What of my people?’

  Lune replied, ‘The important thing is to rid Cray of the luminophages. The flaw in the city must be understood. But hark, someone comes.’

  Umia stood straight. There came a single knock at the only door into the chamber. He called out, ‘Yes?’ and a young officer walked in, a chief Triader administrator in orange breeches and a grey cloak with two dorsal fins, her brown fuzzlocks tied back with a black ribbon. She said, ‘Reeve, I bring the report as promised.’

  Umia waved at her impatiently. ‘Read it, read it.’

  She took a scroll from an inner pocket and began to read. ‘Reeve, the report reads as follows–’

  ‘Get on with it!’

  ‘Second Deputy Ciswadra reports that a sonoplast has been engineered that uses fifty per cent of ambient sound to produce energy. The bacteria into which these sonoplasts were injected lived two minutes and thirty-six seconds before dying. The DNA of these sonoplasts has been analysed and a short section of the end group of bases is being altered. The new DNA will be tested inside the pyuter environment before being manufactured by micro factories. The side effects are that the equipment in which the bacteria lived was transformed to yellow plastic. However, the glass was transmuted successfully. First Deputy Heraber is of the opinion that in a few weeks a bacterium will be created that can be released into the city.’

  Umia waved away the administrator. He sat at his desk, chin on hands, a dejected expression on his face. ‘What shall I do?’ he asked himself.

  Soon he heard the voices again. He could not tell from where they came, or even if they were real, though they seemed real. Lune said, ‘Umia, your great time is approaching. If the sonoplasts are efficient enough the glass wave can be turned back and Cray can be saved. Doubt not that the luminophage units create this glassy plague in their dark night masses, create transparency in their luminophagous frenzy, thereby to bring more light to themselves.’

  But Gaijin responded, ‘You I advise otherwise, O Reeve. Lune is not to be trusted. Gnosticians are evil beasts. They work with glass. They hold one of the keys.’

  Umia said, ‘Lune, glass becomes opaque if it is thick enough! Why should I believe you, why should I believe this story of making transparency to pass more light?’

  ‘This is the heart of luminophage strategy, Umia. Light is energy. If it is halted, the organism dies. In creating an almost completely transparent environment the organism makes conditions that are most beneficial for itself, thereby to survive and pass on its silicon genes. Cray is a city overpowered by noise. Since you cannot use light energy, you must use sound, and if you succeed you will halt the glass and create day from night.’

  Gaijin scoffed at this, saying, ‘Noct is our epitome, O Reeve, and you are tied to Noct. May you never leave this chamber while you are Reeve and the scion of Noct? No you may not! There exists a hierarchy of people to do your will – stern, tough, so there is no softness. For softness kills, O Reeve. Noct and you are hard as night.’

  Umia paced around his chamber, before turning to the black statue and staring up into its ebony face. Only the opal eyes and lips were not black. ‘Save me, Noct!’ he cried. ‘Each new Reeve kills the previous Reeve. I killed your previous servant and chucked her body down below for the plants to suck on. I did that. Save me now and never let anybody enter this chamber carrying a weapon.’

  ‘Hands strangle,’ Gaijin pointed out. ‘Boots kick heads in. Teeth rip out throats, bite eyes. Hands stuff tongues down throats, cave in windpipes–’

  ‘Noct,’ Umia said, ignoring Gaijin, ‘I am not afraid of somebody coming for me, but I do fear being unable to carry on. Succour my talent Noct, let me continue, let me remove the accursed loping purple invaders for ever.’

  Umia walked away from the statue and collapsed into a chair, exhausted.

  Lune said, ‘The two Archivists below you in the hierarchy, Heraber and Ciswadra, they will never hatch plots to become the new Reeve of Cray.’

  Umia retorted, ‘How do you know?’

  ‘And what of Querhidwe?’ said Gaijin. ‘You, O Reeve, must do something about her Archive, or it will control your city.’

  But Lune said, ‘Fear nothing from Selene. Fear only the plots of Gaijin, for she is a hater of human beings. And do not fear Gaya!’

  ‘Distrust Gaya,’ Gaijin said.

  ‘Embrace her,’ suggested Lune.

  Umia stamped his foot. ‘I’ll never embrace her!’

  CHAPTER 9

  One day Subadwan had to visit the Water Purification House in Feverfew Street, on account of brown water trickling from taps and standpipes throughout the Archive. Having been told that the problem was due to glass fragments and dust choking the lower sewers of Westcity, and that she and all the other residents of upper Westcity would have to wait until Triader aquanauts cleared the tunnels, she found she could do nothing but return to the Archive. But she had half expected to get nowhere, since city pyuter networks had refused to connect her with the Water Purification House. As she passed through the Blistered Quarter she saw some houses half-plastic half-glass, patchworks of darkness and twinkling light set with polythene bricks chewed by silicon grubs. Street cables, some of which she had to swing aside to pass, were also succumbing to heat damage, and under these no outers lay. Where vitrification was bad it was often the case that pipes, cables, wires and tubes were twisted together and pegged to one side, out of danger, so that Subadwan had to crouch and slide to make progress. But the street was not only choked with cables: piles of white glass dust glittering with larger fragments lay everywhere, causing many citizens to don masks as well as their earmuffs.

  Subadwan looked up into the sky. It was noon, yet dark. Through grimy air she could see the moon, an oval now with one triangular end. All around her stood awe-struck Crayans. They even gazed up from the crowded roofs of the city, braving the fantastic din there. Subadwan settled her earmuffs over her ears more comfortably and hurried on, the manic sparkling streets lighting her way, while, above, the independently moving twin searchlights of bats created shifting columns of sickly light.

  The Archive grounds were thronging, bustling pedicians jumbled up with cloaked folk, lumods everywhere creating a kaleidoscope of light, the golden ground invisible. Subadwan had no alternative but to forge a way through, signing with impetuous hands, Make way. I am Archivist Subadwan. Make way for me.

  Inside, the public chambers too were crowded, smelling of dust, sweat and pedician manure. Subadwan hurried upstairs to her own chamber, grabbing her clothes – blue gown and boots, with a sheaf of golden ribbons for her fuzzlocks – and putting them on. In front of a mirror she washed her face, clipped speech amplifiers to both ears, replaced the opal studs with blue sleepers, drank a shot of spearmint alcohol, then tied back stray fuzzlocks. Minutes later she was standing with Aquaitra on the podium of the public chamber, a great hall packed with three or four thousand people, Rhannan and Aswaque nearby.

  Aquaitra sidled over to her. ‘Everything all right, ’Dwan?’

  Subadwan nodded. This was not the time to mention the encounter with Tanglanah and Laspetosyne.

  ‘Rumours of trouble at Selene’s,’ Aquaitra said.

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Some ghastly creature’s muscled his way into the Archive, bullying the elder Archivists. Very strange.’

  Subadwan grimaced, then nodded. ‘I heard something about that. A warrior with the head of a fish. Must be a pyuton mutant. Gaya save us from such vermin–’

  Rhannan held up her arms and signed to the crowd, Quiet.

  Aswaque, at her side, signed, It is Gaya’s time.

  A twin detonation from the rear of the hall made the assembled laity gasp and look behind them. Two smoke trails in the air. Somet
hing flying over.

  Subadwan glimpsed two black faces flashing by. Rhannan screamed. Aswaque yelled and sank to the floor. Before Subadwan could turn to see what had happened somebody at the front of the hall screeched, ‘Headbreakers! Headbreakers!’

  Scant seconds had passed. Subadwan turned, saw Rhannan and Aswaque on the ground, their heads capped by a black hand, or so it seemed.

  The crowds screamed and panicked. Everyone was shoving for the doors at the back.

  Subadwan stared petrified at Rhannan and Aswaque. The headbreakers were clasped to their skulls. With a splintering crack both skulls split along the crown. Blood and brains spilled out. Subadwan stood mere yards away, and blood splattered her clothes.

  Aswaque’s body lay still: Rhannan twitched.

  Assassination. Subadwan stood rooted to the ground. She could not even scream because her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Assassination!

  Aquaitra must have run towards her: Subadwan was knocked to the ground, a screaming voice in her ear. Galvanised, she sprang to her feet and ran to the edge of the podium, as far away from the bodies as possible, then turned to stare at the carnage. The din of the panicking crowds almost made her panic, but she was too fascinated by the bodies to let herself go.

  The black creatures melted across the podium, becoming two puddles of stinking tar. Aquaitra was standing now over the bodies.

  Aquaitra turned. ‘What–’

  Using Archive cant Subadwan signed, Quiet.

  Aquaitra nodded. ‘Yes, Lord Archivist.’ It was said without sarcasm – naturally, automatically. Subadwan stared at Aquaitra, horrified. It was true. She was Gaya’s Lord Archivist.

  Then she looked down at the brains and gore, and felt numb.

  Still the people were screaming in flight. The hall was half empty but strewn with bodies, some motionless, some struggling, some jerking like electric puppets. There was nothing Subadwan could do to stop the crush. Twenty, thirty bodies she could see.