by M. Suddain
‘GIRLS. WOMEN. LADIES. BOYS. LADYBOYS.’ I was on the world’s most disturbing merry-go-round. My driver made the radical decision to turn right for once in his life, and we finally drew up at the mouth of a tunnel, flooded. The driver got out to peer at the river of foamy, apple-yellow sludge, and to throw up his arms. The rusty hook where his right hand should be caught the neon light. A pipe had ruptured. The whole place seemed close to rupture. I held a kerchief over my mouth and nose. I felt myself lose an inch of height as I sank into the cack. Shadows disenjoined themselves from shadows and came out to see us. I felt for the pistol in my jacket. Things were spinning. ‘You want hotel!’ A tiny individual clambered out of a shanty hut to which was bolted a crude sign: ‘SMUT HOTEL. 1 GUINEE.’ He hobbled towards me on crooked pins, using a rod of steel as a crutch, pointed with a grimy finger up the tunnel, and it was then I noticed that he might in fact be a boy. ‘Is flood! You stay my hotel!’
‘No. No, I won’t be doing that.’
‘Is fine hotel!’
‘I’m going to Central Park.’ I pointed where I imagined the sky might be, somewhere above the crags of steel, the nests of electrical wires, the giant spinning fibreglass fortune biscuit, the ninety-foot-tall video screen playing hardcore pornography. ‘I need the docks.’
‘Combina. Down there! Tunnel. I give you the boat!’ The boat. Of course. The boy hobbled back into his shack and came out a minute later with a wooden cargo pallet. He dragged it to the mouth of the tunnel and set it to float. ‘Floats!’
‘OK, no, this isn’t going to work.’ Traffic was backing up behind us, blocking our escape. I pictured Gladys finding me half submerged in a creek of sewage. But I was out of options. I had the driver and the boy take my cases from the cab, yelling, ‘Don’t scratch them!’ as they dragged Ms Xixi-Catton-Highburn’s expensive cases through the maché of oily paper and oyster shells and discarded syringes. Then an improbably tall and impossibly filthy woman came lumbering out of the smut hut and started yelling at the boy. They shared a heated argument, and I quickly realised she must be his mother. I paid my driver with some of the cash I had left. ‘Pay me, too!’ said the boy, and when I went to grudgingly hand him a note he said, ‘No! Lovely pin,’ and pointed at my tiepin. ‘This pin,’ I explained, ‘is more valuable to me than gold.’ But he kept yelling, ‘The pin! Lovely pin!’ I thought about pulling my gun, but I had no idea how many friends he had in the shadows, so with great agony I handed him my pin, a treasured birthday gift from a treasured friend, the pin I’d used to pick the lock on countless sets of handcuffs, cellar doors, cold-store units and helicopter cargo-pods.
As I floated off into the darkness I felt a sudden sense of peace. The walls of the tunnel were caked in ancient sea-life. It was quiet. I could hear my thoughts. The boy and his mother were framed within the circle, lit from behind by a giant video screen upon which two impossibly hairy men stained dark as wood were about to commence a horrific double act upon a viciously aroused woman. As the moonlike circle drew smaller I saw the boy leap into his mother’s arms. It was like the closing shot in an old cine-toon. The music in my head swelled, and as they kissed passionately – tongues entangling like river fish – I realised they must in fact be husband and wife. On Zoraster, anything is possible.
My raft exited the tunnel at extraordinary speed, outpacing my cries, hit the oily ground, skidded ninety yards or so, spinning-top-like, before it finally skud to a halt at an iron gate below a sign: ‘Combina Docks’. The Goddess Agrippas was there to greet me. She is the guardian of travel and travellers, and also death. For what is going to a new place but a kind of dying, Colette? She stands guard on either side of the gate, in each of her two aspects. In her four arms she holds symbols of her unusual power: an eye, a fanged beetle, a slashing star, a severed head which she grasps by the hair. Eyes hang on a rope around her neck. Her own eyes are fierce and her tongue lolls out. She represents true cosmic dominance: the power of birth and death, the fear of destruction, the course of life, the boat across the sappy, sticky waters of time. Her bare feet shine with the grease left by the lips of travellers. I would not kiss her feet. First, because I don’t hold truck with such rituals, and second, because leaning languidly against those feet was a woman in a green scarf.
‘You took your time,’ said Gladys. ‘It’s a quarter to ten.’
‘I had to come by river.’ I was a little shaken from my journey, and my new shoes were specked with filth.
‘You know there’s a light-rail service,’ said Beast.
The boy at the departure gate hardly glanced at us. Beast had been ready with an ‘I’m sorry, he’s been in a coma’, but when I said, ‘Hotel Grand Skies, three passengers,’ and held up my invitation, the boy said, ‘You’re Tamberlain?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’m legally obliged to ask you if you’re certain.’
‘Am I certain?’
‘Yes. Once you’re on the boat there’s no going back.’
‘Of course. I want to do this. It’s my destiny.’
The boy nodded. He reached under his desk to press a button and the departure building’s iron security gate came down with a crash so loud it made Beast jump a foot. The boy pointed to a machine in the corner. ‘Weigh yourselves and your luggage and print out postage stickers. Stick the stamps on your cases and lapels.’
‘The fuck?’ I heard Beast murmur. You would not believe what he costs to post.
We waited on the docks, gazing out across the uncharacteristically calm ocean, below a characteristically stormy Zorastern sky. I had used the restrooms to clean the worst of the filth from my shoes. Our platform extended out over the sea, and was shrouded in mist. (A faulty humidification unit.) We could hear the water lapping underneath. We could hear Harvest celebrations winding up in the city. ‘Just give me ten minutes, Gladys. Ten short minutes of your life, and if this ferry doesn’t show up it means it was all a dream.’
‘It was all a dream. Literally.’
‘Ten minutes. And then you get to enjoy weeks, months, years of mocking me. When I say, “You’re late, Gladys,” you can say, “Oh! Did you not get the dream I sent you?”’ She almost smiled.
‘I just want my meal. My perfect meal. If it exists, I want it. I want to eat it in peace, in a place where people leave you alone, and where the waiters don’t smell of waitresses, and where the food is served on plates. Not planks. Not machete blades. Not fucking anvils. Not on the shells of live turtles. A simple fucking meal, Gladys, with no strings, and no fucking tourists.’ Almost. She almost smiled. ‘And it’s out there somewhere.’ I pointed to the skies above, to the cities of humanity, visible in one small patch through a break in the clouds, shining like a handful of grain cast up into the sunlight through a cellar door. ‘Somewhere in the East. The Near East. They hide well, but they can’t hide from me. I am a relentless hunter. And my quarry is out there. I’ll stake my life on it.’
It was a good thing I didn’t seriously stake my life on it. Because I was wrong. The hotel wasn’t beyond the Velvet Curtain. It wasn’t even beyond the silver veil of clouds which obscured the skies of Zoraster. As the clock in the departure lounge struck ten we felt the platform begin to rumble softly. We exchanged glances. Softly the dark wrinkled waters of Zoraster Bay began to trouble, first a cloud of bubbles, then a whirlpool, then a dark shape emerging from the ocean thirty yards away, bobbing to the surface. A sea ferry. It came easing through the mist. Its lamps skimming over the roof of the departure building, across the timeless, snake-haired skulls of Agrippas.
‘Well, fuck,’ said Gladys. You don’t often get to surprise her.
‘Must be here to take us to another sky-dock. Very clever. How did you manage to find me, anyway?’
‘I didn’t,’ she drawled as the ferry docked. Turns out Beast was the one who uncovered my plan. With help. Just as he was about to tuck into his second meat-basket a waiter brought a note on a tray: ‘He’s on the move. To Combina. By black-market taxi.’ Unsi
gned.
But I was wrong a second time. The ferry wasn’t there to take us to another sky-dock. We sailed away, and then down, far down into the depths of the Zoraster Seas, to the Battles, an abyssal trench whose pressures are magnificently destructive, and whose animal life is unfathomably strange. Through foot-thick palladium metallic glass we saw the lights of the submerged cities dim and vanish, until finally we were left to gaze at our own reflections. The fabled lost city of Nanšia is down here somewhere, allegedly. Countless wrecked ships rest in peace below us. The Titan, the Nychthemeron, the Tropicalia. Somewhere in the Battles is the skeleton of the largest cruise ship ever built, the Basilisk. One hundred and forty-seven thousand people taken into the loving deep when their ship hit the wreckage of another doomed hulk. The remains of the Basilisk have never been found. There’s a helicopter cargo-pod down here somewhere, too.
Life goes on.
‘Must be going super-deep,’ I said to my own reflection. Felt a strange tightening in my hands and head as we went deeper. Took another Exocet.3
Beast almost can’t deal with what is happening.
‘Why, Jonathan? Why would they put you on the List?’ He took a stick of bread from the hamper, tore the end off, gestured with it. ‘For your birthday?’
‘So let me get this straight, Beast. You aren’t bewildered by the fact that a mysterious hotel which people have been hunting for years, and which we all thought was hidden behind the Velvet Curtain, is actually in the West, and hidden miles below the surface of an ocean on one of our most populous worlds. You’re bewildered about why I got an invite?’
‘Why, Jonathan?’
‘Because it’s destiny, Beast. Because I deserve it.’ (It is my birthday, Colette. Tomorrow. But I don’t celebrate them. For the record, though, I’m thirty-five.)
Gladys isn’t listening. She’s still sulking at my treachery. Has her phones on, an open packet of Porky-Chums on the table. She’s reading some piece of science-fictional trash. There’s an etiquette to the kind of hotel we’re going to, Colette. The staff at these establishments have little tests to discover whether you are cultivated, and they treat you accordingly. I’m aware that by bringing Gladys to the Empyrean I’ve brought a potent anti-etiquette grenade. I know she’ll mess this up for me somehow. And it isn’t just because she refused to wear the dress. At best she’ll be found out immediately and ejected. But once I’m there I won’t need her. It solves a problem.
One fun game is to quiz her about the book she’s reading. Because she hates it. You say, ‘Whatcha reading, Gladys?’ and she rolls her eyes and says, ‘You wouldn’t like it.’
So you say, ‘No, go on, what is it?’ and she winds her eyes back the other way, lets her jaw slacken, slaps the book face down on her lap and says, ‘Fine. It’s called A Hypersonata for Egbert. It’s about a hyper-intelligent monkey who travels back in space–time to find the scientist who made him smart.’
At this point you’ll want to pretend you’re trying not to laugh – but don’t overdo it – then marshal your features into a serious expression and say, ‘No, that sounds great. But tell me, how’s a monkey going to travel through space/time?’ and she says, ‘He builds a machine!’
And you say, ‘But he doesn’t have opposable thumbs. How can he build anything?’ and she says, ‘TRADESMEN!’
So you say, ‘He can’t talk though, he’s a monkey. Unless he travels back in space/time and alters his genes to … Oh, but then how could he build … Maybe … uuuuuh, no, that wouldn’t work either,’ and she says, ‘I SAID YOU WOULDN’T FUCKING UNDERSTAND!’
It passes the time on a long trip.
The fucking future. Gods, how I hate it. I saw it at the Fair: this hopeful, chrome-plated, diesel-driven monster. I saw the Funhouse of the Future.4 I visited the Pavilion of Big Wood,5 where crazed and often drunken lumberjacks set about dismembering a real giant conifer forest. I went to Gadgetland where I got to paw some of the newest and most pointless devices manufactured in Fire River. Have you heard about the World After Dark, Colette? I wish I hadn’t. This pink-walled attraction displayed the latest developments in the dizzying realm of human sexual relations. They were demonstrating a product called TouchSuit-X. The user ingests a virus which targets her nerve endings, causing them to respond to certain light-tones. After intentionally taking this virus she allows herself to be shut naked in a kind of coffin which then sprays her with combinations of light-tones designed to simulate the caresses of a lover, thus causing the pleasure centres of the brain to blah blah blah fucking kill me.
But here I am sounding like an old man. I’m just relieved to be putting the Fair behind me and travelling back into the past, to a place where quality is revered and technology is shunned.
Another fun way to pass the time is to ask Gladys for a status report.
‘Gladys! Report!’ I said it loud enough for her to hear above the sounds of disgruntled youth.
She sighed heavily and shouted: ‘Nothing to report!’
‘Take your phones off and use the inside voice. What are my threats?’ I sucked another piece of cured pork from a toothpick, squashed it between my tongue and palette.
‘Saturated fats,’ she growled.
‘What is my security status, Gladys?’
‘… Good, Jonathan. It’s good.’
‘Use the colour code I gave you.’
She sighed like a dead accordion, slapped the crumbs from her jacket, and said, ‘Aqua … ma-fucking … rine.’
‘Not a colour. But you get points for tmesis. What about my exits?’
She looked me square in the eyes and said: ‘Service hatch. Head first.’
I looked at the tiny service hatch. ‘I don’t believe my body will fit through there, Gladys.’
‘I didn’t say anything about your body.’
‘Looks like you’ve pushed her far enough, Boss. We should talk business at some point. When will Esmeralda’s money be arriving anyway? Will she wire it?’
‘Yes, she said she’ll wire it to the hotel.’ (A harmless lie.)
‘Hot-stuff. The hotel sent something up after you ran off.’ He handed me an envelope.
Jonathan,
Can’t believe the day is finally here. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. I so massively appreciate you coming out. It’s been such a gargantuan pleasure meeting you, and helping you begin the exciting journey towards self-actualisation. Looking forward to seeing you on 12/24 … in the flesh!
Take care, be at peace.
Doctor Rubin
PS Holler at me when you’ve (finally!) finished my book! Ha ha!
Doctor Rubin, my most relentless stalker. I’ve come to dread his persistent book-foisting, his letters, his motivational poetry, and his nocturnal dream intrusions. But his is the only philosophical guidance I’ve had since Doctor Mirshabak got arrested for exposing himself to children. And it’s because of Doctor Rubin that I’m heading out on this trip. So suppose I should be a little grateful.
‘That’s 12/24 CPC?’
‘Huh? Of course, Beast, why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Well, because we’re not heading out into Central Park any more. We’re staying on-world.’
‘So?’
‘So how do you know they don’t want you 12/24 Terrestrial Calendar? That’s roughly a week from now. Did he specify?’
I shrugged. ‘Pretty sure he said Central Park Calendar.’ I was not pretty sure at all.
But here I am. Heading down, not up. And as three, not alone.
3 ‘Effects from long-term use or overuse of Exocet may include: disinhibition, loss of libido, colouration, jaundice, hallucinations, panic attacks, dry mouth, ataxia, slurred speech, suicidal ideation, urine retention, skin rash, respiratory depression, constipation, anterograde amnesia, concentration problems, drowsiness, dizziness, light-headedness, fatigue, unsteadiness, impaired coordination, vertigo, aggression, rage, hostility, alienation, twitches, tremors, mania, agitation, hyperactivity, restlessness and extended pe
riods of sleep.’
4 ‘… The Fun House of the Future can be found in three connected buildings. During the twelve-minute tour the place performs like a haunted house of domestic aspiration. The narrator – cinema’s Verne William Scott, known for his portrayal of the blood-drinking Kaukassian monster Vanvonhelsingstein/Vlad the Unvisited – pitches his voice at a chilling timbre which announces solemnly the contours of the low-lit corridors. Automated appliances come out of the ceiling, and chroma-perfect pictures flash up in unexpected places. (Ironically, the Kaukassian exhibit just across the way offers a far less alarming vision from the future. There are no disembodied voices, no chomping stoves, and no five-minute reel presenting the often tender adventures of a puppet named “Truthful George and his Truth-getting Hammer”.’)
5 ‘… The Big Wood industry built a carnival of timber along a stretch of artificial river. A company of twenty-five men and women from the so-called “Barbarian Cities” engaged in displays of climbing, chopping, birling (which is another name for log-rolling), jousting while riding logs, double-bladed axe-throwing and general axe-related clowning. The company drank heavily at times. The events became more raucous. Several company members and a number of spectators were injured.’
NOTES ON PREVIOUS NOTES
I am worried, Colette, that I know nothing about who you are, or about your lifestyle. I assume you are from the cities, but I didn’t mean to use the phrase ‘girl from the cities’ in a pejorative or sexist way. Also, I meant ‘lesbian poetry showcase’ not as an objective benchmark for bad entertainment, but as a description of the expression on the face of someone – in this case an immortal prince – for whom the form is alien. I fully support the independent arts, and all the alternative sexualities.