More insects. Now they were hitting Nuïy’s body in their sheer numbers. Nuïy could see neither flowers nor cable through the heaving mass of insects, just Kamnaïsheva’s feet emerging at the end of the chaotic pile. The space between cable and forehead was a brown blur.
Ten patterns. Nuïy felt insects on his skin, in his mouth, in his hair. Suddenly he felt his memory lose something, as if he had forgotten the number of a particular compartment. He guessed. He was right. For a moment he had almost lost it.
Seven patterns. Another guess.
His hand missed the drum skin and grazed the side, causing an error. Insects were crawling over his eye.
Five.
He missed a pattern.
He threw down the drum and, screaming, crawled for the door. He shook his head to throw off the insects, spat them out of his mouth.
“Help!”
The walls of the chamber burst apart. Plaster and wood flew into the centre of the room to reveal panels of hardpetal, red, yellow and green, from which great flowerheads grew with frenetic motions, twisting and spiralling in an effort to reach the enormous potential between the cable and the head flowers. Nuïy, cowering by the door, watched as these hardpetal symbols crossed the room and lunged into the writhing insects, there to vanish.
More panels exploded, their debris hitting Nuïy. He saw blood on the floor and on his clothes. Insects lay scattered everywhere. Then the ceiling caved in, and a plaster board hit him on the head, crushing him to the floor. He crawled free and began to lift the bars of the door. With the bars free, he twisted the lock and pulled open the door. Zehosaïtra made to jump in, but immediately stopped and backed out again. Nuïy crawled free.
“Is he in there?” Deomouvadaïn shouted.
“Yes!”
He stared into the room.
“It is too late!” Nuïy cried. “Too late.”
They all stared into the room. Nuïy saw that swarms of insects were now flying out through those windows open to the night air. In seconds, peace descended. No insects. The flower monstrosities that had exploded from behind the walls decayed, their stems disintegrating, their petals falling to the ground, merging like droplets becoming puddles, then sinking into the floor. Besides the ruins of the golden statue they saw a body, clothes shredded, naked beneath a layer of debris and deactivated insects.
Zehosaïtra stumbled into the room, Nuïy and Deomouvadaïn following and a mumbling Sargyshyva bringing up the rear. They picked their way across the debris to Kamnaïsheva’s body.
“Oh, Our Lord In Green!” Zehosaïtra shouted. He screamed out an oath.
Deomouvadaïn swept away debris from Kamnaïsheva’s body. He gnashed his teeth, crouched down, his body seemingly in spasm.
Nuïy looked down at the body. He saw breasts. No cock lay between the legs. It was a woman machine. Was this a gynoid? What was it? And who…
He cursed the fate which had brought him here, caring nothing for the exalted clerics who heard him—if they did. They were in shock.
“It’s an un-man,” Zehosaïtra wailed. “We’ve been confounded and beaten by an un-man!”
INTERLUDE 3
Shônsair and Zoahnône sat beside one another in a cobbled alley filled with flowers. Hoverflies swarmed around them. It was evening, above them a purple sky set with a few twinkling stars. Shônsair pulled the flowerhead of a large rose towards her, opening the petals a little to get a better view of the screen inside. “I don’t like what I see,” she remarked.
Zoahnône pulled over a similar flower, batting away a few early moths. “The Garden seems to be falling into the sea.”
“There is something awry.”
“But what?”
“Baigurgône is behind all this chaos. Zaïdmouth’s networks are becoming a monoculture, with hoverflies now forcing away even the bees from their autohives. Everything is becoming roseate. Data is corrupting. Databases are becoming inaccessible.”
“All this is true,” agreed Zoahnône. “We must find Baigurgône. If she succeeds in crashing the flower networks she will dominate what remains—or what takes over. And then humanity can look forward to a very grim future.”
Shônsair considered what she knew. The Garden was the only political forum of the area, ignoring such aberrations as the Woods Debating Society, for men only, and the Bliss League, for hedonistic political activists. If the Garden were to dissolve into treachery and intrigue Zaïdmouth would become unstable and everyone would suffer. That must not happen. On these flower networks the future of a humane culture rested.
“What shall we do?” Zoahnône asked.
“If only Manserphine had not vanished. I feel certain that her visions would have described something like this, and from such visions we could have gleaned clues.”
“But she is not with us, and the flower crash may happen soon. And still my work on the embodied gynoid is unfinished. I had relied on Manserphine to offer visionary assistance.”
Shônsair said, “For now we shall have to forget her. The question is, what do we do?” Again she looked at the views of the Garden afforded by the rose screen. Sand lay everywhere. Voices were indistinct over the noise of surf and gulls.
“We must go in,” said Zoahnône.
Shônsair hesitated, then said, “If we must reveal ourselves, we must. Long ago I would have observed from the sidelines, but now I know I must participate. This is my land.”
“Shall we, then?”
“We risk much by exposing our stature as artificial.”
Zoahnône replied, “We risk more by standing to one side.”
Shônsair stood. “I know a quiet place where we can lie amidst the flowers.”
They walked to the western border of the Venereal Garden, then into half an acre of waste ground owned by the Shrine of Root Sculpture, where they found wild flowers growing everywhere. Shônsair looked around the glade and saw how beautiful it was, illuminated by distant lamps set on the roof of the Shrine. They pushed through thickets of wild rose and lavender to find a depression in the soil where once a root cache had lain. Here, they lay, amidst nodding rose briars and flapping moths.
They accessed the matted webs of the Garden and allowed the networks to flood into their minds.
Shônsair found herself standing at the edge of the Outer Garden. In the distance she saw the two clerics of Our Sister Crone, and by their side Alquazonan. She muttered to Zoahnône, “There stands the image of what we desire—a pregnant gynoid. Let us hope your plan manages such a result.”
“Would that she were our result,” Zoahnône replied. “But it is said that she has suffered from a technological cancer since the days of the Gang of Three. Now, follow me into the Inner Garden. It is a separate reality. Just leap over the boundary.”
This they did, shedding blue and yellow sparks of conceptual data as their self-images crossed the metaphoric boundaries. The ground was sandy, flowers were wilting, and salt-tolerant species were growing; ocean-thistles, coarse grass and dune-tea. On the air came the smell of the sea, and its sounds too, echoing around on a gusty wind. Much of the diversity of the reality had been lost, to be replaced by the tough simplicity of shoreline species. Then Curulialci saw them, and with a shocked face she ran towards them.
“Who are you?” she cried. “Get out!”
“Halt, sister!” Zoahnône called, raising one hand, palm out.
“Who are you?”
“We are independent friends of Interpreter Manserphine. We are here to help save the Garden.”
This flood of information flustered Curulialci, but then Yamagyny piped up, “How can you help us?”
“We are not ordinary women,” Zoahnône said. “We have observed many situations in which realities have struggled for dominance. We believe the Garden is being metamorphosed by a semi-reality based in the Shrine of the Sea. We can stop it, if you will allow us, and then we can restore the Garden to its true state.”
“But how?” Curulialci asked.
“We have access to an arsenal of mental techniques that you do not, because you merely observe the Garden through audio-visual means. Watch as I call a hoe.”
A hoe appeared in Zoahnône’s right hand. “How…?” Yamagyny stuttered.
“It is possible for human beings to experience the totality of a reality, but more usually they do not. We, on the other hand, have a natural physical means of interfacing. Thus our minds can effect the substance of the Garden. I called a hoe, and now I can use it.” With that, Zoahnône began attacking a growth of ocean-thistle, until every stem was severed from its roots.
“But one hoe could not repair the damage we have suffered,” Curulialci said, gesturing at the sandy Outer Garden, with its dunes, gulls, and sea-fog upon the horizon.
Zoahnône replied, “This is a minute fraction of what we can do.”
Curulialci seemed unsure, so to persuade her, Shônsair asked, “What have you been doing to defend the Garden?”
“Not much. All we can do is alter procedures and databases from our network chambers. We have had clerics at the Shrine of Root Sculpture make nodules to entrap the metaphoric salt and so return our environment to one based on fresh water, but it is a slow business.”
“Exactly,” said Shônsair. “We can do all that just by thinking of it. Will you let us work here?”
The two clerics looked at one another, hopelessness in their eyes. Yamagyny shrugged, and then Curulialci said, “All right.”
“You’d better start right away,” Yamagyny added.
“We will.”
Shônsair and Zoahnône walked away, until they were out of earshot. “This will be a difficult task,” Shônsair said, “since even ones such as ourselves stand small against an entire reality.”
“We will manage,” Zoahnône replied. “Our future depends on it.”
CHAPTER 16
On the evening of the thirty ninth day of incarceration a mermaid popped her head above the water at the end of Manserphine’s cell.
Manserphine jumped, thinking for a second that it was a cleric or guard of the Shrine come for her. But she saw a heart-shaped face framed by blonde hair, and below that a body mostly woman, but with fish features; notably the individual fins at the end of long, tapered legs that shone pale green and scaly.
“You’re our Manserphine?” the mermaid asked.
“Yes,” Manserphine replied, approaching the mermaid, then kneeling down at her side.
“I’m your second cousin Gholequie.”
“Oh.”
Gholequie smiled, then said in a rush, “I’m here to rescue you, but you’ll have to be brave as the way is rather long and winding. Can you swim?”
“Of course.”
“Can you hold your breath?”
Manserphine began to feel apprehension about what she knew would shortly be recommended. “You aren’t suggesting I follow you through any underwater tunnels, are you?”
“It’s the only way out. So can you hold your breath?”
“For a minute, maybe.”
“It could take as much as twenty.”
Manserphine laughed. “Then you might as well give up, because I am human, not like you.”
“Actually I am human,” Gholequie replied, “though slightly different. And there’s more of us in you than you might imagine. You’ve seen your cousin, Suracunah.”
“Who?”
“The mermaid they caught and forced into the softpetal pool.”
Manserphine felt queasy at this. “You mean I am related to mermaids?”
“Yes. Mermen, too.”
“But how?”
“Why don’t you escape first?”
Manserphine looked around her cell, then down into the water that lapped at her knees. “I am not certain I want to.”
“You have to. People need you.”
“Who?”
“Oh, you’re a talkative one. Can we just escape first, please?”
“How exactly?” asked Manserphine.
“There are five mermaids posted at the end of the escape route, all insensitive to the effects of the networks, of course—”
“Wait one moment—”
“There isn’t time, Manserphine. You’re amongst friends. Family, to be accurate. We’ll guide you through the tunnels to an outflow, and thence into the sea.”
“But I can’t go underwater for twenty minutes.”
“We know that. It’s why I brought this.” From a ledge under the water Gholequie pulled what seemed to be the remains of a jellyfish, which bubbled in the water as if expelling absorbed gases. “This mask will give you about twenty minutes of oxygenated air. You’ll have to wear it all the time because there’s no air pockets. Once we’re at the outflow, you can discard it. Ready to come?”
“Wait, wait,” Manserphine urged. “Once I am in the water there is no going back. I must think carefully—”
“There isn’t time! The Sea-Clerics are massing for battle. You’ve got to come now.”
“Battle?”
Gholequie gave a little shrug, then amended herself. “Maybe not battle, but something serious. C’mon, it’ll be simple. Put the mask on and take a few deep breaths to activate it. Is there any gear you want to bring?”
Manserphine glanced at the contents of her cell. “Not really.”
“Take your clothes off, then dip into the water.”
“Take my clothes off?”
“Too dangerous in tunnels, this dress might catch. Or it might be spotted by somebody. C’mon, quickly.”
Manserphine, misgiving in her heart, slowly undressed, until she was shivering in the cell. It was not cold: she was afraid.
“Aren’t we thin in our family?” Gholequie said. “You’re just like Suracunah, bless her. She was flat chested.”
Manserphine felt she had been insulted as a woman. “Some men like that,” she retorted.
“Oh, don’t fret. Now lower yourself into the water.”
Manserphine did. It was cool, but not so cool as to give her a shock, and in seconds she was used to the temperature.
Gholequie handed over the mask and showed her how to put it on. Manserphine asked, “How does it work? What is it made of?”
“Just an old jellyfish. Now put it on.”
“But…” Manserphine tried to think of an excuse not to go through with this. She could think of some, but none strong enough to oppose the brisk Gholequie.
“Aren’t you taking off your hat?” Gholequie asked.
Manserphine hesitated. “Could you keep it safe for me until we’re out?”
In reply, Gholequie took the hat and tucked it under a wristband. “Isn’t your hair thin?” she remarked, passing a wet hand through it. “That’s a nice braid.”
“Yes. My lover gave it to me.”
Gholequie took Manserphine’s hand and moved it so that the mask attached itself to the lower half of her face. Manserphine breathed in deeply, then exhaled. The mask twitched but stayed put. She breathed again as Gholequie splashed water over it.
“A lover,” Gholequie said. “Is he nice?”
Manserphine nodded.
“Breathe in through your mouth and out through your nose. When you’re underwater, don’t breathe in through your nose… block it as if you’ve got a cold—that’s right. Get your head under and breathe a few times until you’re used to the feel. Ready?”
No way of answering, and anyway Gholequie gently pushed Manserphine’s head under the water.
For a few moments she floated motionless, trying to stop her mind from screaming. Darkness lay beneath her, ready to swallow her up, while above her she saw dim evening light refracting through the surface. Panicky, she waved her hands around and tried to swim through the water to Gholequie, who she instinctively wanted to touch. The mask gripped her face, yet she breathed with ease. The water felt like syrup. Gholequie touched something on her wrist and orange light beamed out forwards and back. Manserphine saw three circles of black in the brickwork ahead: tunnels.<
br />
Gholequie swam to the middle tunnel and Manserphine followed, trying to mimic the gentle, undulating motion of her guide, at the same time trying to move her lower legs and arms to control her direction. She kept feeling that she would float and hit the tunnel ceiling. Now that the initial shock was over, she felt a little safer, but the claustrophobia was bad, exacerbated by the dull thunking of underwater sounds. Above her an enclosing roof; below, blackness. Fragments of memory from the Cemetery returned to haunt her. She pushed them down into her subconscious and concentrated on following Gholequie.
Once they swam into the tunnel they entered a zone of twisting brickwork, never less than three yards across, from which pale streams of algae hung like ruined curtains. For Manserphine, shocks and sudden surprises came in other guises, such as the white crabs that without warning dropped from ceiling holes, and the ribbon-like worms that infested the sludge at the bottom.
Gholequie swam on, smiling without cessation, encouraging Manserphine with gestures of her hands and head; never leaving her side. She did not perceptibly breathe, and there was no trail of bubbles such as Manserphine produced. Behind her, these bubbles danced at the tunnel ceilings like so many ball bearings, except where the black became dancing light—the surface of interior Shrine pools.
After five minutes of the larger tunnels they came to a spherical chamber from which six tunnels radiated. These were far smaller. Gholequie chose the smallest, and Manserphine had to force calmness upon herself, for she wanted to pull off the mask and claw her way up to the surface. Gholequie paused and tied Manserphine’s hair back with a fragment of string. With gestures she encouraged Manserphine into the tunnels.
Manserphine convinced herself that so long as they did not slow, she would be all right. The tunnel would not really close in on her. The orange beams showed straight tunnels made of black stone, encrusted with pale organisms. A few flickering fish darted by. Over ten minutes had passed.
Then Manserphine noticed a sweet taste at the back of her mouth that she ascribed to her fear, but which seemed to come from the water. They rounded a corner and then she saw, like static clouds in subaquatic black, swirls of colour emanating from small pipes. Suddenly she realised that this was a softpetal outflow. She heard a change in the irregular thumping noises, amidst them a sharper, more metallic sound, which made her think of delicately functioning machines.
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