She was unsure where to begin. Dustspirit had explained well enough what she must do, but it was by no means an easy task, and there was the threat of a Flower Sculpture agent who might at this moment be searching alleys and drug dens for signs of blank gynoids. Where to go?
At the end of the street she noticed what looked like half a dozen houses cemented together into a disintegrating building. Approaching, she saw two women guarding the front entrance, and when she saw glowing sigils painted on outside walls she realised this must be the Shrine of Complete Inebriation. In the rough, cheap cant of the urb these sigils spoke of wine and herbs, and chemicals synthesized from rare mushrooms. Manserphine shivered. She felt dirty. Not far away lay the Shrine of the Delightful Erection, where dubiously sticky rituals were enjoyed by men and women.
She approached the guards, smiling at them when they noticed that she was not just a drunkard. “Morning,” she said, adopting local cant. “You two got a moment? Bit of a prob you could help us with.”
One of the guards was half asleep, but roused herself to say, “Piss off, y’bloody beanpole. Can’t you see we got jobs to do?”
“I only wanted a chat. Not a damn lecture.”
“Just piss off, or else, y’bloody posh bitch.”
Manserphine scowled. The other guard glanced at her. This was an unusually tall woman, strong, even noble compared to the other, with dark hair, and brilliant eyes that seemed to shimmer with colour as the sun struggled out of snowclouds racing off the sea. Her complexion was flawless, her hair clean.
Manserphine was not to be beaten. “I only need a bit of advice. Looking for gynoids, weird ones, for a friend. Nothing urgent, just a job. We all got jobs, ain’t we?”
The taller guard considered this, while the other took a swig from a flask. Eventually she said, “What kind of gynoid were you after?”
“Is there any particular haunt around here where they go?” Manserphine countered.
“One or two. Gynoids are rare. Only a few fall prey to hedonistic existence, and consequently their numbers are small.”
Manserphine realised that this was no resident of Blissis. The guard’s speech was measured, yet it did not seem to come from any of the five urbs. As Interpreter, she was familiar with all dialects and social conventions. Most likely the woman had grown up in Veneris then lived in Blissis, giving her a cross-urb accent. Still, it was disconcerting.
After a moment’s thought she replied, “I’m looking for a mad gynoid, a loony. Just the one, I s’pose. You must know something.”
The other guard belched, then turned to her colleague and shouted, “Stop playing up to her, y’damned freak. You speak bad as her. Unclench your arse and get smashed, like normal people!”
“I know little of gynoid haunts,” the tall guard replied, ignoring her colleague. “You might try Cider Central, which is a notorious drinking hall.”
“Gynoids drink?”
“Not alcohol. There are other substances that can intoxicate them.”
“Fuck this!” the other guard yelled, pulling out a rusty sword from her belt. “Piss off, bitch, or it’s worm time!”
Manserphine ran away. The rest of the day she spent east of the urb in the vermin infested swamps that comprised the region, thinking of plans for the night, rejecting them, then devising still more unlikely ideas, until she was fed up with the whole affair and tempted to return to the Determinate Inn. But she stayed. She owed it to herself.
As dusk became evening she heard the strains of music floating from Blissis, mixed with shouts and cries, and the shrieking wheels of fully laden trams. Returning to the central sectors, which housed the greatest concentration of dens and taverns, she strolled the now frantic streets, illuminated by oil lamps, deafened by yelling and laughter and skreeking metal rails. Blissis was transformed. The local population had been doubled by an influx of people from Novais, Veneris, and even a few men from Emeralddis. There were brawls, drug vendors in every alley, smashed bottles and smacked noses. Blood, smoke and alcohol. Manserphine avoided looking at anybody in case they picked a fight.
Finding Cider Central, she first studied it from the shadows of an empty doorway. It consisted of one gigantic hall lit yellow, smoke rising from a dozen chimneys, the doors open to the night, every window alive with silhouettes. Music amplified by stacks of giant poppies blasted out. Door guards sat on high chairs, but they did nothing to bar the clientele, however dangerous they appeared. Manserphine’s heart sank. She was so much an outsider here that even the most inane question would seem suspicious.
At length she summoned her courage and walked up to the door guard who seemed least aggressive, a bald woman with a face full of scars. She began, “Looking for a gynoid, a mad one. Got any inside?”
The woman stared at her, then in a bored voice replied, “Not really. Why? Gotta contract?”
“No. Jus’ curious.”
The woman laughed. “Oh, yeah. Like curiosity ‘bout their innards. Get real, lady. You ain’t got no dig here. Go take some pills.”
Manserphine stayed put. “There’s this gynoid haunt I’ve heard of. Whassit called?”
“Rootbar? Only deadbeats go there. Down the street, second on the left. Check out the red house. What’s all this fuss, anyhow? You’re the second poshbint I’ve see’d today after loonies.”
“Who else?”
“Big bitch, built like the side of a lavvy.”
Aitlantazyn! Chilled to the bone, Manserphine nodded and turned, while the woman muttered, “Bloody bints,” just loud enough for her to hear.
The red building was a simple house with a door smashed into fragments. Outside stood a woman with staring eyes. An addict, Manserphine thought. She approached and asked, “This is rootbar?”
“Roots here, yes. Coming in? Want a natural high? All safe, all pure, no nasty chemicals. I chew ‘em meself.”
“All right. Can I go in?”
“Eollyndy said so.”
“Who’s Eollyndy?” asked Manserphine.
“Me, me! Eollyndy said so.”
The woman was too drugged to make sense. Manserphine entered the gloomy house and made for the sound of talking. She walked into a room, ducking to avoid the low lintel, to find a space empty of furniture but containing six women, all lying on matresses, all chewing rhythmically. Silence. Heady smoke permeated the air. In the centre of the room lay a brass bowl filled with what seemed to be pieces of curled string. Ignored by the stoned women, Manserphine knelt at the bowl to examine their drugs. Roots. She understood. These were human beings, emotional refugees from the Shrine of Root Sculpture in Veneris; the advanced biotechnology of root species created addictions to which clerics of that Shrine succumbed during their careers. Their presence here was heresy. Certain roots turned brains into porridge, others caused skin to fall off, while others created bone cancers and sclerosis. Only here could they satisfy their cravings in peace.
In this room there was nothing but death. Manserphine stood and returned to the door, but she heard footsteps upstairs. There must be more people here. She made for the stairs, but a dark figure blocked her way, a figure that Manserphine did not immediately recognise.
“It is bad fragrance to ignore Cirishnyan,” said a low voice.
Manserphine shrank back from Aitlantazyn’s imposing bulk. The gynoid stepped down to confront her.
“You were knowledged not to come to these beds.”
Manserphine nodded. “I’m gardening differently.”
“Scentless. We understand you, Manserphine. Ungrafted, you have caused bad fragrance.”
Manserphine tried to appeal to the gynoid’s sense of fellowship. “We gardened together down salty meadow. What has altered? We can grow together.”
“We are different species. I smell only flowers. You smell of crone.”
“Does what we endured with the saltysand mean nothing?”
“It is past,” Aitlantazyn declared. “I am floral home bed only, pollenation between different s
pecies being impossible.”
So that was that. Manserphine sighed. “I shall find nothing but dessication here, then. Eollyndy lied when she knowledged this a safe bed.”
“Eollyndy?”
“The doorwarden.”
“She is irrelevant,” Aitlantazyn said. “She does not even indulge. Now, good pollen to you. Leave wine meadow and head for your home bed.”
Manserphine watched the gynoid leave, then collected her own thoughts. The search must go on. At least now she had grasped the character of this urb, and had a better idea of the odds she faced. At the front door she smiled at Eollyndy and said, “Ta-ta for now. Gotta go.”
Eollyndy stared at her. “Going away? Want a natural high? All pure, all safe.”
Manserphine paused to consider the woman. Eollyndy watched her every move, eyes circular like an entranced child. Suddenly Manserphine recalled what Aitlantazyn had said; this one does not indulge. Yet Eollyndy had the crazed appearance of a root addict. Could it be…?
“Eollyndy,” she said, “where should I go now?”
“Roots here, yes. Coming in? Eollyndy said so.”
Manserphine felt a surge of hope. She had almost walked past this one, thinking her human. Well, there was only one test.
She re-entered the house and from her pocket pulled out a compass. Creeping back to the door, she waited until a street-woman walked by and Eollyndy exhorted her to indulge, then, as Eollyndy watched the departing figure, she passed the compass over the gynoid’s exposed neck.
“Oh, sorry!” she said, as Eollyndy noticed and jumped away.
Eollyndy seemed confused. The compass had registered a strong field. This was a gynoid, and Manserphine knew she was the one.
Now she would have to use all her skill. New behaviour would temporarily confuse the blank gynoid, but Eollyndy would soon want to copy and repeat it. She had to become wholly convincing, almost intimate with Eollyndy, luring her with the promise of new behaviours.
She took the gynoid’s hands in her own, and said, looking into her eyes, “You’re tired, aren’t you? I like you lots. Come with me. Don’t you want to sleep?”
Eollyndy stared, but ventured no answer except, “I chew ‘em meself.”
“Come with me,” Manserphine repeated. She stood back and laughed, then danced on tip-toes. “Don’t you want to sleep?”
The strangeness of Manserphine’s behaviour attracted Eollyndy. Manserphine again took the gynoid’s hands, then hugged her. Physical intimacy would doubtless be a novelty to the gynoid. She kissed Eollyndy.
“Come with me,” she said, making her voice as alluring as possible. “You’re tired, aren’t you? Come with me.” Again she danced, and again she kissed the gynoid.
“I’ll come with you,” Eollyndy said.
Manserphine took Eollyndy’s hand and led her away, and like a docile animal the gynoid followed, until they were away from Blissis and breathing cold midnight air. Manserphine felt a joy strong enough to make her want to leap and shout, but she repressed it for fear of confusing Eollyndy. This period of transition could disturb the gynoid. Already she must start impressing on Eollyndy what she wanted her to do: lie still, sleep, wait. Somehow she would have to convince Eollyndy that this was the new pattern of her blank mind.
At the Determinate Inn they walked around to the garden at the rear. Lamps were extinguished and the inn was quiet. Manserphine led Eollyndy to the orchids by the compost heaps, and gently encouraged her to lie down.
“You’re tired,” she repeated, over and over. “You want to sleep.”
Eollyndy pursed her lips, as if requesting a kiss. Manserphine obliged, then said, “Soon the sun will rise, and the stars will go. The sun will ascend, then descend into the west. The night will come, and with it the stars.”
“Yes. I’m sleepy. I’m tired. It is night, and with it the stars.”
Manserphine repeated the mantra a few more times, then stood. These were crucial moments. She would have to leave. With luck Eollyndy would feel an urge only to lie still and experience the slow rhythm of day and night. What a difference from frenetic Blissis life. That was probably a good thing, however, since the novelty would appeal to her.
“I’ll come tomorrow morning,” Manserphine promised, “and every morning after that, and we’ll lie beside one another, and kiss, and watch the sun rise.”
“I’m sleepy. The night, and with it the stars.”
Manserphine tip-toed away, then turned. Eollyndy lay in repose, eyes wide and gazing at the heavens. Manserphine waited for ten minutes, then walked a further twenty paces, crouching low to hide behind a tree. For an hour she watched. Eollyndy did not move. At length, fatigue overcoming her, she left the garden for her own room.
CHAPTER 7
The Drum Houses were unlike the Tech Houses in every way. Whereas the chambers of vegetatively propagating plant networks were damp and often cold, the chambers of the Drum Houses were small, decorated with padded tapestries to reduce echo, and remained warm even during the chilliest days through underfloor heating. A typical room would contain a section of bare floor through which the nodules and roots of plant networks showed, each connected to matted cables, some as thick as Nuïy’s leg, which led to drums of clay two or three feet high. The bases of these drums were thick with network sensors, so that the drums had to be supported by hammocks when not played. When played, they were gripped by the thighs and knees. Their hides were of goatskin.
In connecting drum sensors to the networks, the clerics of the Green Man had devised a method of influencing the traffic of data independent of flower technology. Under suitable trance conditions, usually achieved by means of Deomouvadaïn’s herbs, a talented enough drummer could transfer immense quantities of data, or change procedures, even entire systems. But the concentration required was too much for even the best drummer, and perfect precision was impossible to attain.
When Nuïy arrived, all this changed. His first day was a revelation. Taken to a drum room by Kamnaïsheva, he was told to sit at a stool and grip a drum between his knees. This he did.
Kamnaïsheva was an impassive man. When he spoke he seemed to trawl wells of aloofness. “Attempt a few hand beats and learn the feel of the hide,” he told Nuïy.
Nuïy recalled the rhythms he had learned. He beat one out with the metronomic precision characteristic of his thought.
Kamnaïsheva’s face changed a fraction. “Do you know what that is?” he asked.
“A rhythm I heard. I sit by the Drum Houses some evenings and record what I hear.”
“How many others do you know?”
“All of them,” Nuïy replied.
Silence. Kamnaïsheva sat studying him with his green eyes. Then he said, “And how many are there?”
“So far I have identified three thousand, six hundred and fifty six. But occasionally a new rhythm is played. I record it in my mind and add it to those I have memorised.”
Another silence. Nuïy realised that he had shocked the Analyst-Drummer, but he felt no pride in the thought. To be proud would be to betray Deomouvadaïn, and thus the Green Man.
Eventually Kamnaïsheva said, “You have talent, Nuïy. Would you like to make use of it in the service of the Green Man?”
Nuïy copied Kamnaïsheva’s coldness. “I would.”
“When was the last time you memorised a new rhythm?”
Nuïy pondered the question, then replied, “Eighteen nights ago. Do you want me to play it?”
“Go ahead.”
Nuïy beat out the rhythm.
Kamnaïsheva then said, “The Recorder-Shaman tells me that you do not use trance herbs when you listen to the networks.”
“That is true.”
“I suspect the same may be true if you drum. Do you think that may be true?”
Nuïy nodded. “The herbs would merely soften my mind. My mind must never be soft. It is crystal hard. It is in portions. These portions would merge if I took herbs.”
Kamnaïsheva sat loo
king at Nuïy for some minutes. Not daring to speak Nuïy looked away, uncomfortable with such attention, and studied the knots in cords fixing goat hides to clay bodies. In a quiet voice Kamnaïsheva asked, “How many portions are there in your mind?”
Nuïy felt uncomfortable. He did not like to peer into his mind, prefering to interact with his inner self as if with a gigantic chest of drawers in which he kept all his useful memories. But under that structure he knew other portions lay, to do with his family and his childhood.
He replied, “I do not count them. They are a landscape. Some parts are invisible.”
Kamnaïsheva nodded. “I want to test you. You have identified the exact number of manipulating rhythms devised here by drumming clerics. However, you do not know their names and purposes. Tomorrow and for some days following we will methodically go through every one. I will name their names. You must memorise these names and the purposes of the rhythms. Once we have achieved that, we will decide how you can best serve the Green Man.”
“I will do my best.”
“I expect no less. If you succeed the test, a useful future lies ahead in the shade of the Green Man’s boughs. If you fail, you may still be of use to me.”
“Very well.”
Kamnaïsheva led Nuïy to an outer door of the Drum House. “Return to your dormitory. See me tomorrow at first light. I will arrange with the Leafmaster for you to miss his class.”
Nuïy began the walk to the dormitory, but soon he was halted by Deomouvadaïn. “What did the Analyst-Drummer say?” he asked Nuïy.
Nuïy described the conversation. Deomouvadaïn was lost in thought for a while, but then he said, “Did you work well with him?”
Flowercrash Page 11