Flowercrash

by Stephen Palmer

  “Good,” Manserphine said. “Now all we have to do is mate them.”

  The lobster was wriggling in Gholequie’s hands. Manserphine moved the crocus bulb near it, and its struggles became more frantic. Gholequie held the lobster flat on the sand, so that Manserphine could roll the bulb up to it without risking her fingers. Immediately the lobster pounced. It curled around the bulb and began eating the wispy outer layers, but simultaneously the bulb itself seemed to leak, and they noticed streams of colour sinking into the lobster’s shell, turning it every colour of the rainbow. After just five minutes the substance of the bulb had sunk into the lobster, which was now eighteen inches long, ferocious, and looking for more. Gholequie picked it up and swam out into the ocean.

  “What will happen now?” Manserphine asked.

  “More will be made by cumulative action. Unknown to the Sea-Clerics, they themselves have helped us, for the reef has made the concentration of softpetal higher than normal. Our lobster’s intense desires will be communicated to all the other lobsters through the medium of softpetal molecular arrays. All we have to do is wait until the idea they symbolise is so strong the reef itself suffers.”

  “Good.” Manserphine looked out across the ocean. “Soon the Sea-Clerics will be relegated once more to irrelevance. But I would like to see Fnfayrq once more. She needs to have her failure explained to her.”

  “That is a matter for you, if anybody.”

  Two days passed. On the evening of the third, a runner sent to the Shrine of Our Sister Crone told of strange events around the flood. Manserphine walked down with Teshazan and Yamagyny, where they saw a thick line of soggy ground, wet vegetation and slimy paving slabs. The waters were receding fast. They danced for joy.

  The only response from the Shrine of the Sea was to post their own clerics upon the rocky edge of their headland, where, in gloomy silence, they watched as during the night the floods sank, the river banks returned, and then the sand of the estuary, until as the sun rose all was as it had been. Silently, the clerics returned to their Shrine.

  All lay quiet. Defeat hung heavy over the estuary.

  The reaction of the Cemetery networks was illuminating. They seemed invigorated by the new potential of the revealed land, and in days there were thick lines of violet and black blooms marking major informational routes from the Cemetery all the way down to the ruined autohives, while elsewhere lesser lines radiated out from nodes of ivy and black poppy. Many of these bloom fields were hardly visible under an enormous press of moths, but others were less frequently visited, and these could be seen as glowing lines of colour behind dark insect clouds.

  And still the hoverflies died. Millions had been brought into existence by the rose monoculture—a plague of metal insects. Now millions died.

  Subterranean water began to suffer pollution. The oils that lubricated the fantastically elaborate insect population were inimical to biological life, and these oils leached through the soil into springs and streams. Wells began to stink. Water had to be boiled. Crops were suffering. All over Veneris— worst hit by the flower crash—an air of panic was developing.

  ~

  For Manserphine, the Venerisian destruction was devastating. Sensitive to the arcane beauty of the flower networks, she felt oppressed by the perversions she saw. Baigurgône could win, she felt. And yet nothing was certain. Human activity and the networks constituted a symbiotic system, and for this reason the appearance of Zahafezhan was a force for good.

  So it was that she began to wonder if she and perhaps a few others were yet to make their mark on the fate of the networks; for she felt she might be one of the agents of change. Her ability to enter the Core Garden suggested this. It was now that her love for the flower networks illuminated her thoughts, causing her to realise that she could seek out those who opposed her to find out who might perform the final deeds. She understood that the mad men of Emeralddis were perhaps part of her opposition, as might be somebody in the Shrine of the Sea. With this in mind, she petitioned Curulialci for access to the poppies of the Headflower Chamber.

  It was granted. She felt hope again.

  Inside the Garden she first reassured herself that she could still enter the Core Garden, before walking to the edge of the Outer Garden, where all was shadow-shrouded and violet. In truth the Garden had no real edge, but there came a point when the lush excesses of interior parts were replaced with more solitary trees and bushes. And she had walked south, towards the pulsating orange semi-reality which now lay before her on the horizon.

  Somehow she must leap into it. How? There was no bridge.

  She knew she must do it. The odds against her were large, but she was fighting for the survival of human culture. She must leap across.

  Yes. She could create a bridge, because her connection to the networks was direct, allowing imagination a key role. Suddenly, emotions crowded her mind; awe at the possibilities that faced her, joy at her abilities, wonder at the gap between herself and the orange blob. These emotions carried deep knowledge from her own mind. They made a bridge. It wavered like sunlight on ocean, yet it was splashed with colour, indicating its goodness. Happily, Manserphine leaped onto the shifting path and ran forward so that the orange glow enlarged, then opened like an over-ripe peach splitting to accept her. Fragments of the reality dripped over her, wetting her mind.

  The semi-reality of the Sea-Clerics coagulated around her, and she found herself in a bright structure like scaffolding, composed of various ledges floating at different levels. Strange shapes of black, blue and grey floated like balloons, but they seemed hard, reflecting light as if polished metal surfaces. All was precise, yet irregular, its effect like mathematical equations made solid.

  Her presence had been noticed. On some of the floating ledges clerics stood, manipulating the fabric of the semi-reality with their bare hands. One such was Fnfayrq. She leaped over to Manserphine’s ledge and confronted her.

  “You here, so sea-late, when all is dark in our lame and isolated mind?”

  Manserphine almost felt the humiliation in this simple sentence. Wanting to reassure them, she replied, “How good it is to have the sea wash over my naked body, sun shine, wind softly blow, a sense of purpose in the ocean from which we all came.”

  Fnfayrq seemed confused. Perhaps she had expected gloating. After a pause, and a glance back at the colleagues who were staring at them, she turned to say, “You here, so sea-late, people standing on the shore, their eyes turned to the heavens, oh, how they wonder why the stars are arranged as they are.”

  So she was curious as to what Manserphine wanted, and how she had entered their semi-reality. Manserphine replied, “Between islands an isthmus of coral lies.”

  Fnfayrq nodded, confirming in Manserphine’s mind that behind her lay the method of Fnfayrq entering the Garden. Fnfayrq also used bridges, and the context-based language she used meant nothing else needed to be said.

  Smiling and extending a hand, Manserphine said, “Brightly glittering water.”

  Fnfayrq hesitated, then touched Manserphine’s fingers with her own. She seemed a bruised woman, withdrawn, unhappy, a cloud of gloom hanging over her that Manserphine occasionally glimpsed from the corner of her eye.

  After a minute Fnfayrq said, “So big is the ocean that more than one sea can be traced within its volume.”

  An acceptance here that even the Shrine of the Sea could fail. Manserphine knew they could never properly admit the failure of their interpretation, rather they would intellectually view it as a collection of logical mistakes. But that might be enough for her purposes.

  The time was now. She needed to know whether Fnfayrq had access to the Core Garden. She said, “In the Garden, so many flowers grow from the heavy soil, small arbours appearing like bubbles from sea-floor vents.”

  Fnfayrq frowned. “A storm approaches.”

  She did not trust her. Manserphine brushed the objection aside with a cheery, “The sun ultimately warms everyone.”

  Fnfa
yrq countered, “The sun creates a cyclone.”

  “The sun shines on shore dwellers, lover, oh, so warm, naked skin suffused in glowing heat.”

  Persuaded, Fnfayrq gave a little gesture of fatalistic acceptance to the other Sea-Clerics, before turning to gaze at a far away ledge. On it, Manserphine noticed a supine figure. Klnorq. She understood. Fnfayrq drawing her attention to the honourable suicide was an intimate admission of defeat from a woman possibly more noble than her colleagues, a woman made so by her contact with the outside world. Suddenly Manserphine was afforded a glimpse into Fnfayrq’s schizophrenic mind. Her emotions did not underpin her sense of self. Yet she saw others acting humanely, and she wondered what that meant. Now Manserphine felt guilty at the way she was about to manipulate Fnfayrq. But there was nothing for it. It had to be done.

  A sudden insight took her. There was hope for the insincere Sea-Clerics. Their language was based on context, and hence ultimately on personal contact. It could so easily have been an abstract monolith like the aggressive tongue of Emeralddis. Because it was not, the possibility of their hierarchy dissolving was available to them.

  The pair jumped out of the semi-reality and back into the Garden. Because Manserphine was so certain of her destination she found that the end of the coloured bridge had moved, so that when they alighted they were outside the arch of the arbour.

  Fnfayrq looked around as if frightened. Manserphine said, “The Inner Garden is sunny-scented, perfumes drowsy.”

  Fnfayrq appeared to relax. Manserphine gestured at the arch, then walked through into the Core Garden.

  Fnfayrq followed.

  So here was a second agent of change. What had she contributed to the networks from lonely Aequalaïs? What had she yet to offer? Manserphine knew she had some thinking to do. They each sat on a granite chair to survey the arbour around them.

  After a while, a nervous Fnfayrq got up and returned to the Inner Garden. Manserphine followed. The bridge wavered. Fnfayrq alighted, then turned to say, “Oh, ex-lover, disappointment at pleasure feelings lost.”

  Surprised at this personal admission of failure, Manserphine, knowing that one day Fnfayrq must return to the Core Garden, replied, “Who knows where a current may lead, cold water down, warm rise, the weather is a wreath of chaos that we look to from our tiny, shoreline vantage, this arbour for us two in perpetuity.”

  Fnfayrq sadly smiled, then walked back into the orange glow of her virtual home. Manserphine departed the Garden and returned to her room, where she tried to sleep.

  A few hot days passed, then the weather turned cooler. Autumn was approaching. Life was now becoming difficult because of the dying hoverfly hordes. Veneris was both polluted and strangled by the Cemetery networks. Food was scarce and stocks were low. An ancient fear of starvation during deep winter months began to exercise the minds of every Venerisian. The Ice Age had not been forgotten.

  Then one evening the call came.

  An initiate told Manserphine that a gynoid requested her presence at the rear door of the Shrine. The gynoid was Zoahnône. “Alquazonan is in labour.”

  “In labour?”

  “So it seems to us. Perhaps she is dying. Either way, you should be with us at the Determinate Inn.”

  “I’ll be there shortly.”

  She returned to her chamber, sent a few messages to cover her absence, then, robed and booted, ran from the Shrine to the inn. A couple of windows showed lights. The front door was locked, so Manserphine ran to the kitchen door at the back and let herself in, pausing only to bar the door.

  In Alquazonan’s room she found everybody: the two gynoids, the two men, even Omdaton. “What’s happening?” she breathlessly asked.

  “I’m dying,” Alquazonan said. Her voice was soft, with a metallic undertone that reminded Manserphine of less sophisticated gynoids.

  “She’s about to give birth,” said Shônsair.

  “You can’t both be right,” Vishilkaïr remarked.

  Alquazonan gave a very human groan.

  “It obviously hurts,” Manserphine said.

  The fluids dripping from between Alquazonan’s legs gave off a scent of roses, quite heady, with a duller hint of lavender. She began twisting on the bed, and the lump in her belly seemed to swell, even move. Manserphine thought she detected an oval shape. Half appalled, half fascinated, she watched the writhing body before her, gripping Kirifaïfra as if for protection.

  Suddenly a hole opened up in Alquazonan’s lower belly with a squelch and a fountain of black fluid. It lengthened downwards, until a gash a foot long had formed itself, wetly blue, emitting a scent of summer wild flowers. From this a lamina of plastic emerged, to split lengthways into two flaps and push apart the sides of the gash; and from this slick hole a dark shape emerged.

  Alquazonan gave a final groan, and the thing in her belly lengthened, then popped out. Alquazonan’s belly immediately healed itself. Angry red spots paled, then vanished. The plastic of her belly lost its wrinkles. She relaxed. Her eyes were closed.

  On the bed beside her lay an ovoid object the size of a human head, wrapped in tough, fibrous leaves, like a plant bulb.

  There was silence for a few minutes.

  “What do we do with that?” asked Shônsair.

  “What analogies do we have?” Kirifaïfra replied. “It could be an egg. Perhaps we incubate it.”

  “It looks more like the sort of bulb you plant in late winter,” Zoahnône said. She picked it up. “It’s heavy.”

  “One thing is clear,” Manserphine said, “it’s not a conscious being. So there is one final stage to this.”

  They all stared at her.

  Zoahnône asked, “What are you saying?”

  “That thing in your arms is a physical manifestation of the networks. They are building up to something. Seeing this, I’m beginning to wonder if one more event awaits us—we haven’t fulfilled our function yet.”

  “We?” Zoahnône queried.

  “I went into the Core Garden with Fnfayrq and we sat on two of the three chairs there. One more person is due.”

  “So?” Shônsair irritably said.

  “What function can we claim?” Zoahnône asked.

  “That of agent. The networks and our cultures are inextricably entwined. If we can act upon them, so they can act upon us. If they change, so do we. This is the essence of your original plan, Zoahnône… if we change the nature of the networks through the existence of the new gynoids, then we also change human culture. But there is more to it than that. The whole significance of the flower crash has so far focussed on the networks, but we also have a part to play… that of actor. The networks know this, and they have arranged it so that three main agents have a chance to influence outcomes. I am one of those agents, and Fnfayrq is another. A third is unknown to me. There are other minor agents, minor players in the process… you, Zoahnône, and you Shônsair. But we saw recently that you two cannot enter the Core Garden. I think that I must now use my abilities to bring the outcome we want.”

  “Sheer hubris,” Shônsair protested.

  “No,” Manserphine said. “My unique ability to sense the future state of networks proves you wrong. If the networks can affect me so intimately, then I can also affect the networks. It could not be any other way. I am now an actor. I can make a difference. There must be symbiosis, and therefore the networks must know I exist. This means I must at least have the ability to determine an outcome. The outcome I want is Zahafezhan’s survival—in fact the flowering of her kind. If I do nothing, I am collaborating with Baigurgône.” She indicated the object in Zoahnône’s arms and concluded, “There is Zahafezhan. We must decide what to do with her.”

  There was a pause, before Shônsair said, “You speak persuasively, Manserphine, but as yet I am not convinced.”

  “I am half convinced,” Zoahnône admitted. She looked down at the bulb and said, “So what do we do with this?”

  “Plant it,” Kirifaïfra said. “It’s a bulb. It comes metapho
rically from the flower networks. Plant it at the bottom of our garden where nobody will see it.”

  Manserphine shrugged. “I think that’s the most sensible suggestion.”

  “Or the least insane,” remarked Shônsair.

  “What does Alquazonan think?” Vishilkaïr said.

  From her position stretched out on the bed, Alquazonan answered, “I do not think I shall be a good mother. Get rid of it. Plant it in the garden and see if it grows.”

  “This seems as good a time as any,” Manserphine said. “Nobody goes into our garden except us. The bulb will be safe there.”

  Days passed, and the bulb grew in an unexpected manner.

  At dawn of the morning after they planted it, Manserphine crept out to see if anything had happened. It had. The pale heart of the bulb had expanded into an oval lump a foot high, poking out of the ground like the head of a gigantic mushroom. The leaves around it crinkled, died, and dropped off, to leave a leathery skin, pink, brown, marked with irregular splashes of red and black.

  Moths avoided it. Yet all around, hardpetal veins emerged from the soil, so that the ground took the appearance of a slightly raised dome.

  Over the next week the bulb grew. It grew to a height of six feet, then stopped. Its skin paled to pink, here and there splashed with dark arcs and lines. Limbs became apparent. A head formed, and then, overnight, they had in their garden a naked gynoid, graceful, feminine, her feet planted in the soil, her face that of the infant Manserphine had seen in her vision. She wept to see that face again. Later, it became the visage of a mature woman.

  But the strangest thing was the crown of her hairless head. There lay a structure like a great flower, reflecting light from its pure gold petals, glowing like mirrors in the sun.

  Zahafezhan was alive, but unconscious.