conversation did not seem meaningless.
We arrived among businesslike transportable structures and
sighed to the ground. As the boots of my softsuit whispered in
ceramic gravel I visioned a hail.of congealed stone from furnace
clouds of flash-boiled rock in the final hours of the holocaust. Pixr’s
helmet light pierced my eyes like a surgeon’s knife.
He never said, big stooping Fainey-Juveh in his baggy clothes,
cynical/trusting when it came to the hum an community of which
he hardly seemed to feel himself part, baby-innocent before such
devices as sneak computers (or was he just hamm ing it?) — he
never said, but in his own game he must have been some big jack
himself. See, here he was single-handed, prying into the buried
culture of a whole world, at his command a heap of gear: ground-
cars, transportables, houses, workshops, laboratories, machinery
of all kinds, rock cutters and borers, specialised probes and analytical gidgets. I bet he knew how to handle the computers of archaeology.
And we walked down a mine hacked through rock whose frozen
writhings were imprinted for all time with the death scream of a
world — into a drop chamber suddenly flooded with brilliance so
we could cut our helmet lamps and climb onto the disc which
breathed us down the polished shaft; almost three thousand
metres, he said. Sesemene had hoped to make his final resting place
(or place of waiting) secure. Great in audacity, great in caution.
The archaeologist machines had taken a Trivashti year to sink that
shaft, for the silver angels of Fomalhauti vengeance had puddled
the moon’s crust halfway down to the catacombs of their conqueror,
but then the rock had hardened into an adamantine rind protecting Sesemene better than ever.
We walked through a short passage bland as a passage in an
army hospital or in a computer factory, through a cleanlock,
through a curtain which might have been a curtain of history,
through centuries, through centuries of centuries into a chamber of
the empire. Even Limini and Pixr were hushed.
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W ithinhelmetbubblesI sawthewhitesof theireyes. Fainey-Juveh’s
metal servants accompanied us to pry and probe what we might
find, to sound with microseismic pads, to photograph, to holograph, to X-ray, to pierce with monomolecular needles, to contour scan, to smell, to taste, and to plot interferographs between all
these channels. This was good, good yeah, but their first and finest
function was to extend tall rods from flat acranial heads like those
insect fishes of the lightless depths to hang out lamps that lit the
chamber like day. And lit the rout of poison fogs at the onset
throughout my being of a great nebula of wonder over . . . well,
everything — even the shirtbuttons were exotic, subtly anciently
different, and the buckles, a wrist m irror of silver polished like
liquid, a tiny filigreed eyebrow comb of gold, the pine-forest-on-a-
mountainside theory of interior architecture (Syrian Gothic)
realised in fairytale marble manufactured beneath the protostar
pressure of Bubutap’s thousand-kilometre-deep ammonia storms,
a dodecahedral chest of Bast ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl
from the seventeenth stomach of a Lagorni cow, a panel cut with
relief scenes of the progress through a world of monsters of a heroic
winged mesomorphic child of kings that was only the sliding door
to a wardrobe that a whole gang of servants — hum an servants —
could walk inside, the weird archaic tessellations of the floor we
stood upon, the strange slender non-Cartesian furniture, the silken
cushions embroidered with unclad women stylised as I had never
seen, their skin calling to my mind the interiors of seashells . . .
The minds of these people, yes, called to me across lost and silent
years, minds that had encompassed pine forests, star-pressure
technology, multidimensional chair design, minds that had loved
eagle-winged men and pearlshell women (as well as bat-winged
men and bearded women), minds that had produced dainty silver
mirrors, vain golden combs, and produced too the philosophies,
laws, dogmas, the superstitions, fairytales, nursery rhymes — all
the uncounted ideas and objects that furnished the grand mansion
of empire — The minds of men, think! there is no end to it — the
minds of workers on the dawn mono across Dourisburg chained to
time but with their dreams of hot sour coffee, the place between a
woman’s thighs, and monsters; the mind of — say — O rry swimming in wine and nailed out on the white sand by the white stars but accented with knowledges of all the places he’s been, the talking
he’s done, and the pressure of karinga on lip; the mind of a jum p-
beacon keeper exiled for years in the black between stars by the
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anger of his childhood and the religion of his race that says
automatics are the devil’s work — all these minds living in the
weird landscapes of themselves composed of that greatest article of
faith of all time, the outside world, to which belong those creatures
magnificent in their caprice, other people, and then the more certain regions of scheme and intent, and then the indisputable savage brilliant continents of dream surrounded by the endocrine oceans
of emotion.
So here I was, but I forgotten, mind in mind like foot in boot
with Sesemene (or the creators of that chamber) — marble forests,
the weight of Bubutap’s methane streams, skewed insect chairs,
winged heroes and seashell women supplying the harmonics to the
thrum of the now-jewel that pierced and pierces and was and
is . . .
Sesemene Sesemene Sesemene — conqueror, builder, warrior,
commander, butcher, appointer, condemner, lover, rapist, con-
ceiver, slayer, artist, posturer, dancer, priest, king . . .
Hushed, white-eyed, we moved from room to room, chamber to
chamber, workshop to laboratory to stable to wardrobe of many
rooms and took in wonder upon wonder in this rockbound city-
palace-tomb. ‘Ooooo’ and ‘Aaaaa’ and ‘Eeeee’ whooped Limini and
Pixr. They ran from toy to toy looking, touching, turning, rapt in
what could be seen, touched, turned in their invisibly gloved
hands. We adults maybe lost, because we were lost in vision but
there was no way else to take in all this — we walked through the
years in the heart of the star-spanning Trivashti empire, we walked
in the emperor Sesemene’s palace.
‘Why all this in a tomb? He could have lived here.’ Once again
Fainey-Juveh and I were joined in understanding.
‘Yes,’ was all he said then.
A new vision began to grow. O r I felt his presence. Sesemene.
Not dead these centuries of centuries, only sleeping. Awaiting the
coming of those with the science to return him to wakeful life. And
we had the science — not Fainey-Juveh and me, but the worlds to
which we belonged. Sesemene the Eagle, Bubutap, Priest and Lord
of Bubutap, High O rderer of Orbits, Chief and Marshal of
Armies, Trivash Lord of Trivash, King of Lives, Lor
d Provider,
Vulture of Fomalhaut, King of Kings, Sesemene Emperor . . .
sleeping there. O ut of this unparalleled mausoleum Sesemene
would rise again — suddenly I was afire with this knowledge, this
certainty, for what can be done will be done — look at the cosmos,
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look at all the weird things they do, all the peoples poking prying
trying building daring dream ing daring spreading seething
through the myriad myriad stars. There is only one law — what can
be done will be done — and this great presence in whose shadow we
crept from pillared cavern to pillared cavern filled with the treasures of numberless antique worlds would live again.
Sesemene.
Fainey-Juveh with his adopted beloved daughters oooooed and
aaaaaed at the knowledges his machines like trained dogs sniffed
out for him and brought tail-wagging upon their displays. This
pearly sphere upon a tall baroque stem was not solid but carried in
its interior some intricate mechanism — for what? This unknown
wooden hand implement had originated in the single torrid billion-
year forest of Orkan when the trees were yet young. And this object
floating in golden amniotic fluid within glass was the foetus of a
smaller creature resembling a m an — what? — and why?
Speaking tautly, dogged by the fawning machines, we came at
last to the tomb of tombs.
Unease had arisen in me, I was a child about to commit some
childish crime for which I must then go in fear of discovery. I
wanted to turn back, I wanted to get out of this — let the buried
stay buried. But I could not flee and earn thus the disappointment
of Fainey-Juveh. And another part of me did not want to.
O ur feet had brought us to great sword-blue metal doors with
ornate wheels beside. But we did not need those wheels to open
them. The archaeologist had not yet entered this inmost sanctuary
of the undead, but he and his iron dog servants, in preparation for
the official entry, had barnacled an airlock onto one of the lower
panels, checked it, flooded sterile air beyond, then left it to await
the coming of the first men in tens of thousands of silent years. Why
had he held back? Why not a private glimpse? Was the need of his
strange and generous nature to share the wonder of his discovery
more powerful than the summons of that most magnificent autocrat lying within? O r did he fear to enter alone?
So through the cramped lock we peeled out of our softsuits,
placing them folded, little more than bubble helmets in a row. By
something in our m anner Limini and Pixr who had been regaining
their laughter were quieted. We were in an antechamber full of personal things. Sesemene watched fierce-eyed and multiplied over my shoulders. Indeed there were half a dozen eagle-faced dummies
bearing ceremonial outfits of metal and gems. Two were sets of
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dress arm our for a grandly muscled chest, helmets with springing
double plumes, gauntlets and greaves, and codpieces proportioned
to house the testicles of a bull, over which should lie (the jutting
downcurving languid but arrogant platinum sheath graphically
depicted) a penis of heroic design. Pixr shrieked with laughter,
pointing, was joined by Limini when Fainey-Juveh and Praliya
smiled. Then he hurried us on.
And I stood before —
There slept within the wondrous living crystal whose love could
be felt filling the chamber — there slept like a god in amber — slept
between breath and breath — Ah, that face! Blue, hawkish, hair
curling black beneath the iron crown, eyeglobes imperial beneath
closed lids —
‘Hail, Sesemene!’ whispered Fainey-Juveh.
And I, caught up, cried, ‘Hail Bubutap!’
‘Hail, Eagle,’ the archaeologist said.
‘High O rderer of Orbits, hail!’
‘Hail, hail, hail, Trivash Lord of Trivash!’
‘King of lives, Lord Provider, hail!’
‘Hail, Vulture of Fbmalhaut! Hail, King of Kings! Sesemene,
Emperor — ’
‘Hail, hail, hail!’
We were shouting, a triple shout of triumph. Praliya was smiling
uncertainly, and after a moment’s silence Limini giggled, and Pixr,
their eyes showing white triangles where they slid them sideways at
each other.
‘He will live again, won’t he?’ I said.
‘I had not dared dream we would find this,’ breathed Fainey-
Juveh. ‘Yes, I don’t doubt he will live again.’
Seeing themselves ignored the two girls stepped back to ferret
what else of interest the room might hold.
Fainey-Juveh continued, ‘I hope there will be no difficulties —
we must ensure that he is treated fittingly, not merely an object of
study.’
I said, ‘He will take — seize — his own place among people.’
Fainey-Juveh nodded, allowing his machines forward. They
sniffed and probed, pried and sounded, hum ming to themselves.
Hail, Bubutap. We, the metal dogs of men who come after you,
greet you.
And displayed their findings. So that Fainey-Juveh froze. He was
stooping, white.
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‘No — no — ’ head shaking, trying to tell me something. Me
turning to him, offering support — what? Praliya hanging on his
arm. ‘No — he will not live again.’
‘H o w - ? ’
‘There is no brain.’
‘No brain?’
‘His cranium is empty — full of packaging. No brain.’
‘Ah - ’
‘Ororon must have destroyed it, his successor, his son. Ororon
XVII. Mean — petty — little — man!’ Fainey-Juveh’s teeth
squeaked together. ‘Bastard! Bastard!’
The bubble of my elation was pricked. Before us lay a husk, a
mockery, kept hatefully natural by the deceit of the crystal. Of
course the empire was dead, gone, dust ages since. Here we stood
deluding ourselves, feeding on fairytales amid a hoard of baubles
while a real world roiled on outside threatening death and ravishment upon those we cared for. Kolissa — I see your living eyes —
forgive me, who should be there side by your side facing whatever
shall come. Kolissa, Kolissa, what am I doing here buried in the
rock of this ancient rat-hole rubbish-heap death world? (Rubbish-
heaps are the substance of archaeologists’ work.) I was ashamed,
sidetracked from seeking Kolissa in whose eyes lives the light of the
universe to chase an empty pageantry of death. It made no difference that I would not yet be allowed to land on Otzapoc. Why hadn’t I tried to call her? Certainly the call would be allowed
through, certainly the hospital would allow her to take it. Clearly
there was no harm in finding out. Then she would have known I
was on my way, that comfort would have been hers. Was I really
frightened of finding something had happened to her? I should not
have denied her comfort for that.
I was sitting sprawling on the floor before the crystal sarcophagus and the dead dead dead king. Me, second by drawn second, approaching death, second by second dying, second by second, cell
by cell, today a million more cells dying and rotting in me than
yesterday, a miracle that the blood and lymph could sweep them up
and carry them away, but the lymph and the blood also dying by
degrees until it can no longer sweep out the dead cells and they pile
up and pile up until the death in my body outweighs the life and the
death breath goes out of my long-rotten throat, rotten breath,
breath-rotten, rotten with drink, rotten with empty words spoken
upon empty air (‘Kolissa, I love you’ — yet I am here safe within the
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rock and not with you) in empty rooms and empty taverns while
the universe dies cell by cell and star by star and its peaks of heat
slide down and fill up the troughs until all is level grey death grey
death level death . . ,
Then shrieks of laughter pierced my dull mind. Fainey-Juveh
was holding Praliya’s hands, they talking quietly. We three looked
up towards the antechamber where we had left our softsuits. In the
doorless arch little Pixr faced us, herself arched back with childish
hips stuck forward, hung like a warhorse with a bejewelled metal
codpiece clumsily strapped on her, making believe to piss like a boy
into the plumed helmet that Limini with slight embarrassment and
much mirth was holding out. ‘Pssssss,’ said Pixr clutching her giant
platinum phallus, ‘pssss, pssssssss.’ Shrieked with laughter, mouth
stretched to let it out and teeth and teeth and teeth, eyes slitted,
head almost falling off backwards. Limini bubbling, watching us a
little.
From out of death I doubled up and laughed and wept laughter.
And Fainey-Juveh and Praliya choking-chuckling, saying ‘Oh no,
oh no, oh no.’ The anchorage of my diaphragm beneath my ribs
hurt with the violence of laughing. Until we were gasping and I saw
Fainey-Juveh’s eyes and he mine and we broke out again, and Pixr
the pisser pissing and pissing into the king’s ceremonial hat until it
was full and overflowing and no longer quite so hilarious and we
laughing with tortured sides at the memory of laughter. Gasping
and gasping.
On the way back through the silent magnificent (oh, it was, after
Strange Attractors (1985) Page 31