Glass

by Stephen Palmer

  ‘We urgently need to borrow your skill at weapons manufacture. This lady here is Subadwan of Gaya, and she needs you to make a special gun. Come on over to the Baths.’

  ‘Expect me in half an hour.’

  He arrived on time. He was a small man, only a few inches taller than Subadwan, and just as slim, though where Subadwan gave the impression of small-scale dynamism, Mogyardra was decidedly frail. He possessed the mysterious aura of a solitary pyuton. However he entered the Baths armed with a rifle, a dagger and a miniature pistol. Liguilifrey said they had not met for over a year, but they got on as if yesterday they had spent all night talking in the quarter’s courtyards. They spoke, laughed, then returned to Liguilifrey’s chamber.

  ‘Where’s your eyes?’ Mogyardra asked.

  ‘Gone for ever.’

  Subadwan said, ‘Gone some time ago, Mogyardra. But on to this rifle we need made. You know the ochre plague? We need a gun, or more likely more than one, to fire gobbets of plague stuff.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To kill aeromorphs.’

  Mogyardra nodded. ‘Unorthodox, but it would provide me with an excellent challenge.’

  ‘You love a challenge, don’t you?’ Liguilifrey said.

  ‘I do, I do. So, four projectile rifles. How would you load the gobbets of ochre gel?’

  Subadwan began, ‘Well…’

  ‘Isn’t that your problem, you dimwit?’ Liguilifrey said.

  Mogyardra grinned. ‘I suppose it is.’ He stood up as if the meeting was already at an end.

  Subadwan said, ‘This is vitally important, Mogyardra. I can’t tell you how important. More rests on your inventiveness than you can imagine.’ She wondered how far to trust this particular Crayan. Liguilifrey said he was trustworthy, but… ‘We might need more than four guns, though,’ she added.

  ‘How many exactly?’

  ‘If they only last for one shot each, um… a few more at least.’

  This made Mogyardra frown. ‘What are you planning to do, if I may ask?’

  Subadwan hesitated. She looked at Liguilifrey, but her friend did not see her glance, and offered no help. ‘Cray is in peril. I have to bring down all the aeromorphs.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I’ve got a bat to fly in.’

  ‘Mine is not to wonder why. I’ll do my best, Archivist, that’s all I can do.’ With that, he departed.

  Liguilifrey consoled Subadwan. ‘He won’t sleep tonight. He can’t resist a challenge. We’ll hear from him at dawn tomorrow, and like as not he’ll have built a prototype. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ Subadwan said.

  She slept soundly that night, despite her fears. Dozing next morning she dreamed of flying high above Cray on the back of a black aerician, guns spitting fire, killing aeromorphs, watching them cartwheel, drop to the ground, and burst in an explosion of kissleaves that fluttered, scented, to the earth. She had never dreamed of scent before.

  Liguilifrey woke her. ‘He’s here.’

  ‘Wha?’ Subadwan muzzily replied.

  ‘Mogyardra. I told you we’d hear from him.’

  Dressed in robe and slippers Subadwan followed Liguilifrey to the fore hall, where an impatient looking Mogyardra awaited. In his hand was a black tube. He exhibited the excitement of a small boy as he explained to Subadwan the principles of his invention. ‘This is a projectile tube. The difficult part was the expulsion of the plague gel. I’ve made a sort of flipping tongue, which will expel the substance at speed. See, you just bend down, activate the tongue’ – here a black tongue emerged to scrape the floor – ‘and make it suck the substance back down to the base of the tube. Then you press this button to fire it. Try it out today?’

  Subadwan nodded. ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘I ought to stay here to guard the Baths,’ Liguilifrey said.

  ‘Mogyardra and I will go,’ Subadwan said. ‘You stay here in case of trouble.’

  Apprehension made Subadwan’s stomach churn. If anything went wrong, the end of Cray could follow. And if Tanglanah discovered what was going on, the same. But she had Gaya on her side, even if Aquaitra had assumed the role of Lord Archivist.

  Outside, the vitreous street was deserted. They hurried along to a tiny alley called Sand Passage, where Mogyardra spotted a patch of ochre on a wall. There they waited, crouching down in the shadows. With Peppermint Street the thoroughfare from Eastcity directly into the heart of Westcity’s Blistered Quarter, they did not have long to wait. One of the aeromorphs came flying along the street. Subadwan noticed how careful it was to move centrally down the way and not touch anything, and she realised that it too knew of the ochre plague.

  ‘Shall I do it?’ said Mogyardra.

  Subadwan nodded. Placing the nozzle on the ochre patch, he activated the tongue. The aeromorph rumbled by. Mogyardra leaned out and fired.

  ‘A hit.’

  Subadwan, her heart thumping, leaned out of the passage. The aeromorph had stopped only a few yards away. For some seconds it lay quiescent like a confused beast, before an extraordinary transformation began. The soot-blackened outer plates of the aeromorph fell away to reveal a latticework interior of pipes, ducts and cables, all gleaming metal and coloured plastic, with gouts of black oil and clouds of steam spurting from exposed vents. The aeromorph seemed to shiver, and more of its exterior fell away, so that the street became littered with piles of metal and smoking plastic. What remained – half its original volume – was an almost humanoid form twenty feet long, wracked with spasms. Subadwan realised that the thing was trying to rid itself of all traces of the ochre plague. Yet it seemed to be panicking. Bolts, cables and fragments of metal were flying in all directions as the aeromorph shook itself into an ever smaller form, until all that remained was a recumbent figure like a dying pyuton.

  Subadwan understood that it was a dying pyuton. This was the transformation that Tanglanah and Laspetosyne had undergone to become pyutons; but they had endured it in their own time, and without stress. Now Subadwan understood the potential of her plan. If she could destroy the remaining aeromorphs she would bar the surviving beings of Gwmru from manifesting. Forced to stay in their abstract land, they would continue to sustain Cray while they lived within it – and they would not depart since they would not leave Tanglanah and Laspetosyne behind.

  Again Subadwan looked out into the street. She saw an oil-covered pyuton, its glittering innards visible as if it had been unable to create a skin. It tried to climb to its feet, but failed. With a screech of metal its limbs fell off and its torso disintegrated. There were a few sparks, a few oily bubbles, and then nothing.

  Subadwan turned to Mogyardra to say, ‘It works! Leave the gun, you might catch the plague. We’ve got to run back to the Baths.’

  Despite his frailty he was not entirely decrepit, and in seconds they were out of Sand Passage and navigating the alleys around Print Street and the shattered remains of the Indigo Courtyard.

  ‘We need more guns,’ Subadwan said, ‘as urgent as anything you’ve ever done.’

  ‘You return to the Baths,’ he said, ‘and I’ll set to work.’ Subadwan watched him vanish into the maze of passages.

  Back at the Baths a fretting Liguilifrey awaited. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘Yes,’ Subadwan crisply replied. ‘Now, there’s not a moment to lose. I’d barricade the Baths if I was you. Tanglanah might suspect me.’

  Liguilifrey agreed, her face showing her worry. ‘I suppose you’re right, but it’s vitrifying!’

  ‘This is life or death,’ Subadwan replied. ‘The Baths should hold out until I’ve finished.’ But despite her words she inspected the foundation blocks at the front, to find the glittering street outside partially visible, as a river of light through a smoked window.

  By evening Mogyardra was ready. In a rucksack they packed the stubby rifles, before leaving to creep down Peppermint Street. Here, they planned to ambush the other aeromorphs.

  Cray now was almos
t an empty city. The sweating, dancing, yelling lunar hordes were a sight of the past. The city was lined with impassable lanes, choked to the eaves with glass shards. Pipes and cables dangled: dead. The networks were shutting down. A few outers banded together, but even they were leaving the city to take their chances outside.

  ‘One comes,’ Mogyardra hissed. Subadwan peered out, her head at ground level, to see an aeromorph hurtling down the street from the direction of the Baths. She could hear the clink of its metal plates as convulsively it attacked anything, human or animal, that moved.

  ‘Get ready,’ she said.

  Mogyardra tensed.

  ‘Ready!’ she said, her voice more urgent.

  He lay at her side and aimed down the street. The aeromorph sped by and he fired. Subadwan was not certain, but she thought he had scored a hit. ‘Success?’ he asked.

  ‘Let’s run,’ she replied. ‘I think you got it. C’mon!’

  Over the dull sound of the city came the distinct sound of glass smashing as the aeromorph thrashed about, the knowledge of its doom contributing to its violence.

  ‘Two to go,’ Mogyardra said, grinning.

  ‘Don’t get too confident,’ Subadwan warned.

  But Mogyardra exuded excitement. ‘Those awful beasts are intelligent. They understand their fate well enough.’

  They decided to make east. Subadwan, disconcerted by Mogyardra’s attitude, tried to calm him down, point out the risks, but though he listened he retained the fervour of a boy killing helpless animals for fun. In the privacy of her fearful mind Subadwan prayed for a swift conclusion.

  In an alley off Jessamine Street they waited. The hours dragged by. Passers-by Subadwan questioned, while Mogyardra hid in a doorway. Nobody had seen any aeromorphs for some time, but there were rumours of the remaining two in Westcity, killing and smashing in the courtyards and quadrangles of the Stellar and Rusty Quarters. Subadwan and Mogyardra discussed moving west, but were dissuaded by the eerie silence.

  The night passed. Cray was cold now that its many buildings and factories had stopped generating heat, and even though they were wrapped well, they shivered. Worried, they decided to investigate the area from which the smashing sounds had emanated, to find, illuminated by dawn’s red streamers, the motionless remains of an aeromorph.

  They made west along passages and through deserted quadrangles, crossing the river, then scurrying through glassy lanes east of Culverkeys Street, until they were peering out onto it. In a passage they made their hide.

  Morning became afternoon became evening became night.

  It was shortly before midnight when Subadwan felt a breeze on her face and heard the characteristic rushing noise of an aeromorph flying towards them. She peered out. It wound its way along the street, as if hunting. She instructed Mogyardra to load up with plague gel, and he did so. They stood and shrank back into a doorway as the aeromorph skulked by, then Mogyardra darted out, leaned into the street, and fired at the thing’s aileron. A hit.

  ‘Run,’ he said. ‘It’s already thrashing.’

  Plastic was battered and glass shattered. The third aeromorph knew its body was infected. They hurried back to the Baths, at once afraid and full of joy.

  Subadwan, having decided what next to do, put her case. ‘The final one has either gone away, or it’s in hiding. There’s no time to search for it. I’ve got to go for the aerial ones before it’s too late.’

  Mogyardra agreed, after a pause for thought. ‘I suppose so, though it’s a dreadful thing.’

  Subadwan tried to ignore the glint in his eye. ‘How will you load that gel?’ he asked. ‘It transforms all it touches.’

  Subadwan had given this problem some thought. She wanted to infect every aeromorph in one trip because flights from and to the ground would attract attention and leave her vulnerable to attack, either from the Archive of Safekeeping, from the missing street aeromorph, or from other aeromorphs. She replied, ‘I’ll load in flight.’

  ‘One jolt of the elbow by a gust of wind and you could infect yourself. It’s too risky.’

  ‘No option. Give me those tubes.’

  They were standing in the yard behind the Baths. On the wide, plastic rear wall, two plagues were fighting it out – the left half glass, the right half ghastly yellow. Mogyardra handed over the remaining tubes, then, using a spatula, scraped some of the gel off the wall and dropped it into a thick pot that he had made. Its two-inch sides would take some time to transmute, time enough for Subadwan to complete her mission. Returning to the bat, into which Subadwan had climbed, he closed the pot lid and dabbed a spot of resin upon its base. Then he stuck the pot to the inner board of the bat.

  ‘Good luck, brave Archivist,’ he said. He handed her a laser rifle for emergencies.

  Subadwan told the bat to rise. ‘I’ll return,’ she said. ‘Gaya save me, I have to! Goodbye.’

  The bat rose, leaving a whirlwind of dust and a coughing Mogyardra. Then Subadwan was gliding over rooftops with a bitterly cold wind tearing at her skin.

  The skies were deserted. On a normal day at least one or two bats would be circling the Archive of Noct, riding the thermals, but now there were none. Nor were flying carpets transporting Crayans. Not one aerician flew. A feeling of complete solitude took Subadwan, as if Cray itself had deserted her now that the end was near, and she was its last remaining citizen, armed only with the knowledge of what might be and a desperate plan. As she ascended she looked down upon twinkling glass and a hundred sparkling streets. It all seemed miles away.

  She had told the bat what she intended doing. ‘Set a flight plan that’ll visit each aeromorph in turn,’ she had instructed. ‘The brightest ones first, then the others. Hover close above each one. I’ll be firing out the window. If you sense an attack, tell me first, don’t jog me. Then we’ll scoot away.’

  Already the first aeromorph was close. Subadwan opened the pot lid and loaded her first tube, watching, disgusted, as the tongue licked up a dab of plague gel. A pad winked red: Loaded.

  The aeromorph engines were noisy, clouds of sooty fumes pouring from their underside vents. The metal monstrosity hovered poised like a steel hawk, polished flanges to either side reflecting light from the city, its own lamps golden bright. The bat ascended, banked, then performed a tight circle, bringing it only a few score yards above the aeromorph. Subadwan fired. She had to guess the effect of the wind, but she hit. The plague bullet spread itself over an aileron fin.

  ‘Go!’ Subadwan yelled. ‘Next one!’

  Now speed was essential. If the actions of the third street aeromorph were anything to go by, somebody was aware of her plan. What followed would be a mad dash from aeromorph to aeromorph.

  Bats could fly at speed. Just thirty seconds passed before Subadwan was hovering above a second aeromorph. Tube loaded, she fired. Another hit.

  Hardly believing her luck, she urged the bat on and loaded a third tube. Seven aeromorphs remained. The wind roared by as the bat sped on, banked, then circled the third target. Gripping the tube, knuckles white, Subadwan aimed, then fired. A hit. ‘Go, go!’ she yelled.

  Disbelief shocked her. She could hardly accept that she might complete her task.

  Then she saw something rise from below.

  It sprang up from the Swamps. The fourth aeromorph: it must have been lurking there. Subadwan urged the bat on. Risking all, she loaded a fourth tube, holding it in her right hand while grabbing the laser rifle with her left. Through the left window she fired, at random, not to hit, trying to drive the aeromorph away.

  The bat followed instructions, and even improved them. ‘Don’t worry!’ it told Subadwan. It hovered above and to one side of the fourth aeromorph, trying to keep the metal craft between itself and the street aeromorph. Subadwan fired the tube, her projectile just catching the edge of a fluke.

  The street aeromorph wriggled by. ‘On, on!’ she urged the bat. She turned to fire again.

  The aeromorph followed, then sent out a missile, hitting the bat�
��s right wing. A shudder vibrated through its body. Subadwan heard, ‘I’m damaged,’ then, ‘descending!’ then felt a lurch to one side. Sparks flew into her face and the stink of burning plastic swept by on gusting wind.

  She saw Cray laid out below her. As they fell the aeromorph followed, spiralling, as if damaged.

  The city streets turned black.

  But the Swamps were a pool of radiance, glowing white, shivering with coloured light. An instantaneous effect.

  ‘Emergency landing,’ the bat warned.

  Subadwan threw out the pot, just in time. The tubes and the laser rifle she hugged to her body.

  She stared at the Swamps as they soared overhead. The city all around was illuminated, revealing a ring of sparkling glass, and inside this ring a single mass of optical spillover shone, bisected by the river, spotted here and there with darkness. Subadwan knew it must be too late. A transition had occurred. Electronic beings had journeyed. She had surely been beaten. As the bat wavered across the eastern half of the Swamps she had to raise one hand to her eyes to prevent painful blindness.

  The bat crash-landed and Subadwan was thrown out. Winded, she managed to rise to her feet. Sparks fountained, and then the engine, with a screech, detonated. She was thrown against a wall. The air stank of smoke and fumes. Choking, she stumbled away.

  She thought she was somewhere between the Cold and Plastic Quarters. In an uninfected quadrangle she rested, checked her clothes for signs of ochre plague, then sat to think.

  Had she failed? She remembered that shortly after Tanglanah’s electronic kin decided to act the streets of Cray became brighter. Now, all light had been transferred, as if at the flick of some cosmic switch, into the Swamps. Clearly another abstract journey had taken place, most likely involving the surviving beings.

  So her plan must have forced them into a hasty decision. It was the only answer that offered her some hope.

  She must make for the Baths. Tanglanah and Laspetosyne were neither aeromorph nor abstract. At any minute they might leave Earth for the Spacefish. Subadwan ran.