Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  Dwllis sighed. ‘Because he is afraid.’

  ‘But why augment gnosticians in the first place?’

  ‘At first I did not know, but now it is obvious. Do you not see? Somebody desperately wants to speak to gnosticians. The gnosticians know something important – something concerning Cray, I would wager.’

  Crimson Boney, noting the pause in conversation – another indication of his intelligence – continued. ‘Before people try to hurt me, they tell me with the-quick-moving-hands to come to you, to bring you exuded memories of the city. They say you important link in their plan.’

  Sign language, Dwllis thought: primitive, but workable. ‘Who told you this?’ he asked. ‘Selene’s scribes?’

  ‘The people of the moon. They say they disturbed something. They used to go into the Cemetery and make a seeing lens, then come back and tell me new things to do. They made the clearness in my head. I like what they did, but now they don’t like me, and I run away to nice man Dwllis, who gives me fruit to eat amongst poor ripped up kissleaves. Plants cannot multiply without kissleaves. We only eat fruits off plants.’

  Dwllis nodded. Cuensheley, gripping his arm, said, ‘How could you be part of their plan?’

  Dwllis had no answer. But Crimson Boney said, ‘I sorry I bite off fingers. You frightened me.’

  ‘You bit off his fingers?’ Cuensheley said. ‘You?’

  Dwllis sat back, appalled. Now he understood part of the story. He said, ‘They weirded the lens deliberately. They knew it was something to do with me. The moment Crimson Boney came here, the lens came too. What train of events have I begun?’

  Cuensheley hugged him. He felt cold and numb. The story had come together in his head as a dreadful realisation, but much was still obscure. And yet, with a clarity he had never felt before, he understood that some pivotal event had occurred in the Archive of Selene.

  These realisations made him speechless for some time. He sat still, thinking, looking alternately at Cuensheley, who stared at him face blanched, and at Crimson Boney, who sat with twitching tentacles, gazing at him with heavy lidded eyes.

  ‘I had thought,’ he eventually said, ‘that with Crimson Boney here, speaking to us, we would not have to break into the Archive of Selene again. But now I wonder if that is wrong. And Pikeface. He knows something about me.’

  ‘Pikeface?’ Cuensheley said, wincing.

  ‘Pikeface bad man,’ said Crimson Boney. ‘He had his own plans, not moon plans. He against nice white lady.’

  Dwllis nodded with passion. ‘You are correct, Crimson Boney. Pikeface is different. The key to all this lies with the lunar memoirs.’

  ‘The key!’ Cuensheley exclaimed. ‘The fishtail Querhidwe bequested to you! It must be related to all this.’

  Dwllis had forgotten about the silver fishtail. ‘You may well be correct,’ he said. ‘But how can we find out?’

  Cuensheley gently shook Dwllis, saying, ‘What is it you’ve not told me about Pikeface?’

  Dwllis told her of his meeting with Pikeface and what he had learned from it. ‘These events include me,’ he mused. ‘Some seem to revolve around me.’

  ‘And the Spacefish, that once was the moon,’ Cuensheley said. ‘What is it? It’s getting closer and closer.’

  ‘I do not know what it is.’

  Crimson Boney said, ‘I do not know why our dear moon changes.’

  Dwllis caught a strange inflection in this sentence, though he at once realised that it may have been a poor translation. ‘It is your moon?’ he asked.

  ‘Always it has been our dear moon, for hundreds of generations, back into early days, early years.’

  Dwllis’s mind spun. Hundreds of generations? ‘Do you mean you remember life before you came here?’ he asked.

  ‘We have always been here.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For ever.’

  Dwllis sat back, glancing at Cuensheley. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked her.

  ‘I don’t really know. Ask him again.’

  Dwllis said, choosing his words carefully, ‘For how many years have you lived on Earth? When did you arrive?’

  ‘We have lived here for all time.’

  Dwllis shook his head. ‘There are fanciful tales of the origin of Cray…’ He hesitated before striding over to a pyuter, where, in silence, he called up a file of data. As he returned to sit, the disembodied voice of his rig spoke.

  ‘The founding of Cray. Standard version. And it happened that a great shoal of fish swam through the air with much thrashing of tails. And from the ocean a fish, strong and shining, leaped, and then split into two, its front half landing west of the river, its rear half landing east. And from this flesh the city made itself. And so it was.’

  ‘Very similar to the gnostician folk ritual,’ Dwllis observed.

  ‘No city until five centuries ago,’ Crimson Boney confirmed. ‘You arrive. You come here. Ancestor tales say it is truth. They saw the storm of lights in the sky from the new moon that exploded. They saw everything. They saw the fish, saw the head giblets fall with a splosh into the river, saw the nasty green fishtail fall to one side.’

  Dwllis shook his head. ‘You may think me eccentric, but I believe Cray was built on the remains of an older city.’

  ‘Something feels wrong,’ Cuensheley muttered, head bowed in thought.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Dwllis declared. ‘The puzzle is simply solved. Crimson Boney, from where did the architects of this city come?’

  ‘From the sea.’

  Dwllis nodded. ‘The gnosticians came here some time ago, that is all. Perhaps they even saw the founding of the city.’

  Tired, Cuensheley stood and said, ‘I’m going back to the courtyard.’

  ‘I must work here awhile. I will see you without fail tomorrow morning.’

  She departed, head bowed, as if upset. Dwllis turned to look at Crimson Boney, but the gnostician turned his gaze elsewhere. He decided he must set up a special room for his guest, since Triad threats of gnostician redesign meant the life of Crimson Boney, and of the other augmented gnosticians, hung in the balance. He alone could provide a haven. He departed to harvest fruit from the profusion of plants growing outside the tower.

  At the door he met Coelendwia, about to start the evening’s shift. ‘Good evening to you, sir,’ the Triader guard said.

  Dwllis paused to look the man up and down, realising that he no longer needed protection. The lens had not appeared for some time, and Dwllis suspected its time was over. ‘A good evening to you, my man,’ he replied.

  ‘Everything all right with you today, sir?’

  Dwllis nodded.

  ‘Terrible thing, this purging,’ Coelendwia conversationally added. ‘I’ve witnessed some nasty scenes, I can tell you. Things I wouldn’t tell my mother, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘It is an evil day that one species can be persecuted for so small a reason as the whim of the Reeve.’

  ‘Whim, sir?’

  ‘Whim it is Coelendwia. There is no evidence to link the gnosticians with Cray’s difficulties. It is merely speculation by Triad officials.’

  Coelendwia huffed and puffed, and looked embarrassed. ‘I wouldn’t like to say, sir. The Reeve has never been wrong before, has he? He must know what he’s doing, him being Lord Archivist and all.’

  The talk of gnostician purges irritated Dwllis. He imagined them being herded up, slaughtered… no, no, it did not bear thinking about. He had to stop it. He felt that he had the right to do this since he knew what nobody else knew. He had to declare the truth of the gnosticians to every Crayan.

  ‘I will not hear such immoral talk,’ he told Coelendwia in staccato tones. ‘These creatures do not deserve such treatment.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Incidentally, the lens has departed this locale, so your services are no longer required. You may leave.’

  Coelendwia took a step back. ‘I see, sir. I didn’t know it had been dealt with.’

&nb
sp; ‘I don’t think it will bother me any more.’ Dwllis began to search the surrounding bushes for succulent yellow fruit.

  ‘Well, it’s goodbye then,’ Coelendwia said.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Goodbye, sir. Good luck and all that, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, goodbye.’

  Dwllis hurried over to a spray of fruit and plucked them, putting the smaller ones in his pockets, twisting off a few blue leaf sprays that he had noticed Crimson Boney was partial to, before returning to the tower. Inside, all was quiet. He told the translator to reassure the gnostician while he prepared a room. This room he cleared of human detritus, leaving only cushions, such as the agnosticians made for their more intelligent kin out of dead bracken and cloth. He placed the food on a tray, moved the tower’s four potted plants into the room, then gestured for Crimson Boney to enter. This the gnostician did, followed by the translator.

  Crimson Boney’s head began bobbing and his eyes and mouth widened in an expression Dwllis thought, from earlier observation, might be happiness.

  ‘Nice man, nice room,’ came the translation. Crimson Boney took one of the fruits and said, ‘Good fruit. Soon the orange sister fruit will ripen, and I will take those.’

  ‘I will get them,’ Dwllis confirmed. ‘This must be your home for now. A terrible purge is in operation, and you are not safe in the city. Besides, I need you here.’

  ‘I stay here,’ the gnostician said,

  ‘I want to rescue your other friends from the Archive of Selene, but it is too perilous.’

  ‘Only I departed,’ Crimson Boney said. ‘The others caught, put back in the cells of the moon. I come here to be safe. No friends out in the lands, now I am different.’

  Dwllis felt a momentary sadness as he realised the truth of this simple statement. Crimson Boney had been elevated, his biological family no longer his social family. Without the other augmented gnosticians he truly was all alone. These thoughts, and the recurring images of purged gnosticians, made him all the more determined to save the race from Umia’s madness, but it struck him that Selene’s Archivists might wonder whether their loose gnostician had left the city or not.

  ‘I shall leave you for tonight,’ he said, thoughts of a breakin passing through his mind. ‘I think you are safe here. If you need anything, rouse the translator and come to my chamber, or have the translator come.’

  ‘It will be.’

  Dwllis led the translator out then shut the door. For a second he felt the gaze of the pyuton as a physical force. Disconcerted, he felt his face become hot as the embarrassment continued, for it did not look away.

  He said, ‘Translator, you may discontinue for the night.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  He was not prepared for this.

  ‘I don’t want to, Dwllis,’ the pyuton repeated.

  Dwllis confronted the translator. ‘You will do as I say,’ he demanded, turning to walk away.

  ‘Am I valuable to you?’ he was asked.

  ‘You are a translator. That is a valuable skill indeed–’

  ‘But do you value me? Your Etwe?’

  Dwllis froze. Hearing that name uttered by this pyuton, this unknown pyuton, was dreadful beyond nightmare. Stuttering, face flushed, he replied, ‘You are not Etwe. You are my translator. Now do as I say or face the consequences.’

  But the impasse continued, for pyuton Etwe answered, ‘You can’t destroy me, I’m too valuable. Dwllis, do you know how pyutons commit suicide?’

  ‘Nonsense, n-n-nonsense,’ Dwllis muttered, hardly able to speak for the chaotic emotions welling up inside him. ‘Suicide? Never heard of it. Silly–’

  ‘Oh, it can be done. Do you know what I am? Yes, I’m Etwe, but am I a standard pyuton? You can’t take the risk, Dwllis. But don’t worry, I won’t harm you or your work. Though you mustn’t call me just “that translator” or “that pyuton” any more. I’m your Etwe. You must call me Etwe–‘

  ‘You are a translator!’

  ‘–or I will spread myself amongst the networks like cooking oil on a pond, never to be seen again.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ It was all Dwllis could think to say. ‘No pyuton can do that.’

  ‘If you reject me, Dwllis, my Dwllis, if you push me away, I will never take another love. We were a pair you and I, a perfect pair. I won’t lose what we had, I won’t. You’ll sleep with me, like we used to. I’ve not changed, and yes, you’ll call me Etwe in the night and I’ll feel your breath upon my neck. And in the daytime I’ll do all your interfaces like I used to. There must be quite a backlog by now. It’ll be just like old times, except you won’t order me about so much–’

  ‘Quiet, translator,’ Dwllis yelled. ‘Quiet!’ He had listened to the softly spoken litany in horror, memories of the old days brought to his mind, though he tried to push them away.

  ‘If you don’t listen to me Dwllis, I’ll kill myself. If I can’t have you, life’s not worth living.’

  Dwllis spluttered, ‘What cheap network story did you steal that from? For the final time, you are just a translator. Go away and say nothing until I activate you tomorrow. Is that clear enough?’

  Etwe hesitated. ‘Then I’ll do it,’ she said. She brought a chunky looking optical cable out from her hip pocket and walked over to the public access interface, a scarlet box screwed to the wall. ‘I designed this interface,’ she said, pointing to it with the end of the cable. ‘If I plug myself in I can copy out low level groups of symbols, disabling every layer above. In just nanoseconds I’ll disperse to the electronic winds.’ She made to plug in the cable.

  ‘No,’ Dwllis said, moving towards her. ‘No, do not do that.’

  And Etwe smiled. Dwllis stopped short, horrified at how human she had become. This was a nightmare, nothing but a nightmare. ‘How can you be Etwe?’ he asked.

  ‘I would never leave you,’ she replied. ‘Did you really think I would? I had to come back. I’ve been monitoring the Cowhorn Tower systems for some weeks now, waiting for my chance. And now I’m just too valuable for you to risk losing. Crimson Boney is your only link with the gnosticians, not to mention him being a fugitive from Triad law. We shall never part again, darling.’

  A little of the shock had now departed. Dwllis began thinking of how to destroy this electric freak and yet retain the knowledge entwined with the old Etwe character. Could it be done? No choice: it had to be possible, else he was ruined. But almost immediately he realised that disentangling the strands of what was, for all intents and purposes, a mind would be impossible. It was as impossible as excising the Old Crayan tongue from his own mind. This Etwe pyuton would have to die. More trouble, more danger, and all because of one blackmailing pyuton. The idea of having to sleep with the damnable machine, once the source of happy fantasy and secret joy, was now abhorrent. The idea repelled him, made his belly squirm and his heart thump.

  And yet he knew his thoughts were unrealistic. In truth there was only one option left open to him, and that was controlling Etwe, retaining her translating abilities because he needed them so urgently. He ground his teeth together with frustration. He would have to reinforce the master and servant relationship if he was not to lose all that he had achieved.

  All these thoughts passed through his mind as, hand in hand, they stepped into the tower hall and then ascended stairs to the upper levels. Dwllis wondered what he could do. Already it was bedtime.

  Cuensheley must save him. And yet she must not know what had happened. He needed her help. This was not the time for her to walk off in a huff.

  ‘I shall check the tower locks,’ he said, ‘then conclude the day’s work.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ Etwe replied, and the words carried an extra threat not lost on him.

  He returned to the ground floor. He thought of Coelendwia, but outside, he remembered, no guard stood. ‘Where are you when I need you?’ he growled in irritation to the spot where Coelendwia used to stand.

  He popped a lump of qe’lib’we into his mo
uth, the third of the day. Then he thought of memories. He could claim that a new horde had been discovered far away. Gathering a bag of antique memories – memories that Etwe had never seen – he sent a conciliatory message to the system screen in the chamber where Etwe awaited, checking his appearance in a mirror, then hurrying out of the tower with the bag click-clacking at his belt.

  As he hastened down the short stretch of Sphagnum Street that led to the Copper Courtyard alley, he noticed that the city seemed quiet. Others had made this claim. For some minutes he stopped, earfmuffs half off, but it was difficult to tell without decibel meters and microphones. He hurried on, wincing and looking aside when he came across the vermin-eaten bodies of two gnosticians, who doubtless had been murdered by a noctechne squad.

  Cuensheley was pleased to see him, despite the lateness of the hour, and he had to emphasise that he had not come to stay with her. ‘I have a severe difficulty at the Cowhorn Tower,’ he said, glancing at her to see how she responded.

  Immediately she picked up clues. She could be frighteningly intuitive at times. ‘I wondered why you came. Something to do with us? With drugs? A woman?’

  ‘I need the use of a room for a few days – day and night. Would you mind?’

  Cuensheley frowned. ‘I can’t find you any space in the store room, so there’s nowhere to stay except in my room.’

  ‘What about that room opposite Ilquisrey’s, along the hall?’

  ‘Certainly not. All my private things are in there.’

  Dwllis sighed. ‘Then I shall have to sleep with the stores.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Cuensheley began, but she hesitated, as if floundering for a reason to back up her statement.

  ‘Don’t take advantage of my predicament,’ Dwllis warned.

  ‘Why can’t you live in the tower?’

  ‘Er…’

  Suddenly Cuensheley came alive, as if transported by undercurrents of emotion. ‘I might have known. Etwe. You’re involved with her again, aren’t you? Aren’t you? What’s she done, reported you to the Triad?’

  ‘Most assuredly not,’ Dwllis replied. ‘In fact–’

  ‘It is Etwe, isn’t it? You’re a hopeless liar, Dwllis, despite all this silly manners nonsense. It’s as clear as water.’