Exurbia: A Novel About Caterpillars (An Infinite Triptych Book 1)

by Alex McKechnie

  Fortmann gestured encouragingly to her from the audience. ‘Please, Sister.’

  Another pause for effect.

  ‘There’s not a living soul on Exurbia who knows the insides of Governance better than the imp. He’s seen deeper inside the political machine than the grand tersh himself. He’s only been allowed this privilege given that they know he wouldn’t dare do anything in contradiction with his duties. But exposed to the realities of Exurbia, exposed to anti-wiremind policy and the ritual executions because of it, and we’re confident he would be adequately sickened with Governance to side with a more worthy cause. And with the imp in our ranks, with his intimate knowledge of every aspect of Governance’s structure -’

  Breath, full scan of the room, breath.

  ‘- we will force Governance to lift the Pergrin Decree.’

  Applause, then furious applause, the Zdrastian smiling, getting to his feet, cheering, Mr. Covert Woof bounding about on the spot. Fortmann joined in with the fervour on principle.

  ‘And then,’ Maria shouted above the primal shrieks and the din, ‘we distribute wiremind technology to the whole of Exurbia, every man, woman, and child can build one in their basement. We show them how to make gene tonics, neurowarps, wiremind rigs, all of it, and all for free.’ Then, making the customary hand gesture with the thumb and little finger raised: ‘For the Ix!’

  And the crowd, making the gesture also, all two hundred on their feet, ‘That we may know the Up.’

  All of them in a frenzy now, seconds away from outright baying for blood, a climax more intense than Maria could possibly have expected.

  Not bad, thought Fortmann.

  6

  “Just because it is a seed that builds the tree and a man that builds the bridge makes no great difference as far as the cosmos is concerned.”

  -The Book of Truisms

  Moxie and the Crone -

  ‘That’s far enough,’ called the crone. The girl was barely visible through the tree canopy now.

  ‘Wait,’ said the girl. ‘Wait…’

  She hooked a stretched finger under one of the larger zardanuts.

  ‘We’ve plenty of rice. Don’t go killing yourself for nothing, little one.’

  ‘Almost,’ the girl said, managing to get her whole hand around the shell. From her vantage point she could just make out the tip of the tershal tower in the far distance, its green beacon tip kissing the sky. She tugged at the nut and it came loose from the tree. ‘See?’ she called. ‘No problem.’

  ‘All right, you have it. Now come down for Gnesha’s sake.’

  ‘One more.’

  ‘No,’ said the crone. 'Come down.’

  The damned child was a nuisance sometimes, just trying to get herself killed. Adolescence had changed her in the way it changed most youths, instilling unwarranted courage and baseless self-assuredness.

  ‘Phoebe,’ said the girl.

  ‘What is it?’

  She rarely used the crone’s name, save for when the nightmares visited.

  ‘Phoebe…’ she said again, weaker this time, evidently losing her grip on the tree. The crone could see that much from below.

  ‘Moxiana!’

  The crone was panicking now. She put a foot to the base of the fulshrub and tried to find purchase. There was none. She tried again with her other foot. The boot slid off with little friction. She squinted through the tree canopy. The girl was leaning back now, black hair dangling in muddleclumps, her hands losing their grasp on the main branch. Then her grip failed entirely.

  The world slowed to half, then quarter-speed. She seemed to fall without any real urgency, the arms relaxed and open as though about to receive a close friend, her matted hair falling out into a fan across her face. The crone screamed.

  An orange glimmer appeared in her peripheries. No, thought the crone. Please. She opened her arms as wide as she could and ran to the spot where the child would land. Another glimmer appeared through the trees, dancing about in frantic vertices, its coverage the size of a house. A third materialised not far away where a towering fulshrub had been. The tree had been replaced instantly by a thick curtain of black smog. The orange plumes were all about the crone, dancing in mad oscillations as the girl fell, disappearing the trees and leaving only ashes and smoke and scorch patterns in the dirt, a manic drape, marmalade orange, closing in. The girl hit the crone’s arms at an absurd speed and the crone collapsed instantly like an old shelf. She worked on the child quickly, checking for signs of life as the orange curtain finished off the rest of the surrounding trees. Moxiana was breathing - extremely quickly, but breathing nonetheless.

  ‘Child!’ the crone yelled. The noise of the orange curtain was deafening now, like enormous boulders being knocked together.

  The girl stirred, opened her eyes slightly.

  ‘Moxiana, you need to wake up now. You have summoned the Ayakashi in your panic.’

  The crone checked the girl’s joints quickly. Nothing seemed broken. ‘Wake up now or we’re in a real muddle.’ The dancing orange flecks were drawing closer to them then, approaching from all directions. ‘Please.’

  The girl opened her eyes fully, admired the world without the weight of context for a moment, then bolted upright. The advancing orange curtain evaporated suddenly. In its wake lay little but smoking remains; black cinders and the fulshrub tree she had fallen from.

  'Phoebe,’ she said, tears in her eyes. The crone brought her close and stroked her hair.

  ‘Come, it’s all right. It’s all right. No harm done.’

  ‘No harm done?’ said the child incredulously.

  ‘No harm to you or me. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘The zardanuts…’

  ‘We don’t need zardanuts, I told you. We have plenty of rice.’

  The crone leant back onto the ground, closed her eyes, and searched for her strength. The girl laid down beside her.

  ‘Another vision,’ said the girl.

  ‘Go on,’ said the crone, breathless. ‘And honestly this time.’

  ‘She’s almost here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The strange woman. She’s almost here. And she’s alone.’

  ‘What does she want?’

  ‘She’s going to find us. She knows how to do it.’

  ‘Not if we’re very clever,’ said the crone, tapping her head. ‘Which, auspiciously for you, I happen to be.’

  The girl smiled and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry, Phoebe,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘For what, little one?’

  ‘I’m just sorry.’

  7

  “We made our home on the Archenon Plains to commemorate the dead, and to remind us not only of how temporary our lives are, but how permanent our mistakes can be.”

  - Professor Stefan Jura of Exurbia

  261 -

  That night, a week since the strange girl had come and gone, 261 was visited by insomnia. He’d gone through the usual pre-sleeping rituals - scraping the dead skin from his body, tending to his teeth - and had settled into bed as usual. But sleep had stayed at arm’s length.

  An image would surface and submerge over and over: the victims of the Exurbic drug shortage. Skern Corporation had continued to sell their antidote at some obscene price, making it almost totally unaffordable, just as he had instructed. He saw children, spindly, and stricken with the cyan fever, crying out for respite and finding none. When have I ever thought about these things before? he whispered inwardly. Perhaps there is a neurochemical issue. Possible solution: I should inform Governance. Possible incidental concern: what if they take this as a sign that I am defective, and unable to perform my normal duties? Likely: temporary serotonin regulation issue. It will pass. No need to inform Governance, not unless it persists.

  Sleep still resisted for another hour. The faces of the children were more pronounced now, their racked features embossed on his mind’s eye.

  Then, the cave's androg
ynous voice: ‘261 will ignore this morning’s ablutions and turn his attention to the quandary equipment at once.’

  The hour felt far too early for waking. He paused to see if the voice had been a hallucination of some sort.

  ‘261 will ignore -’

  ‘Understood,’ he said and raised himself up. The cave lights activated. His eyes were sore with sleep lack. Possible likelihood: political emergency.

  ‘261 will ignore this morning’s -’

  ‘Activate the omnicast. I’ll be there in a moment.’

  By the time he’d climbed into a fresh robe, the quandary spheres were already calibrating in the main chamber. He took the central chair. This time however, the cave didn’t wait for his confirmation to begin.

  ‘Day eight thousand seven hundred and twelve, quandary one. As dispatched by Anonymous Governance User. Categorised as astronomical event, extreme circumstances.’

  Extreme circumstances. Never before had the cave used that term. His palms were sweating and there was a rabble of butterflies in his stomach now. Anxiety. I must inform governance of this at the first chance I get. There is no choice now. I am evidently unwell or malfunctioning somehow.

  ‘An artificial object is three hundred million and six kilometres from local Exurbic space and closing at a speed of two thousand and eighty nine metres per second.’

  The butterflies began to swarm and dance. He collected a few of the spheres in his hands, and set them orbiting to possible-aggression stance.

  ‘There is no evidence of weld travel that can be detected by Exurbic telescopes, nor any kind of remnant radiation from an interstellar jump.’

  Impossible. Probable solution: Exurbic telescopes aren't sensitive enough to have detected residual weld fallout from the jump. Alternative solution: syndicate interstellar propulsion has gone through some kind of rapid improvement in the last century.

  ‘The craft is not responding to our messages. Several Exurbic officials including Vice Tersh Mandible and Military Stategist Xiao Leung are proposing military action using the orbital t’assali cannons.’

  ‘Are there markings on the craft?’ asked the imp.

  ‘The object is too distant to confirm at this time.’

  ‘When will it be close enough to discern the markings?’

  He twisted another sphere into the unknown-variable shape and expanded it to swallow the other projections.

  ‘Unknown.’

  Possible solution: pirates, or barbarians. But why approach with only one boat, unless they have some kind of extremely advanced weaponry on board which can fend off the collective defences of the whole of Exurbia?

  He rubbed his palms discreetly on the chair’s velvet arms to dry them.

  Absolute: all galactic syndicate citizens will be aware of a syndicate planet’s policy for dealing with unknown craft in local space. Necessary possibility division: either whoever is piloting the craft doesn’t care about these measures out of some kind of deathwish, else they have some ulterior motive for behaving in this way. Likely incidental: they are flying the craft in this manner to test our defences. Highly unlikely incidental: the craft is being piloted by a wiremind.

  ‘Time since last syndicate or non-syndicate craft visit to Exurbia?’ asked the imp.

  ‘Two hundred and seven years.’

  Time since last communication from syndicate hub?’

  ‘Two months, one week, and one day.’

  Logical victor: this is a military test on behalf of the syndicate empire. If it wasn’t, it should still be treated as such and justified accordingly after the fact.

  261 moulded the last omnicast sphere into the shape of the orbital canons, a first time for him. ‘Military action,’ he said to the cave. ‘Immediate. Inform the agglutinator at once.’

  ‘You’re quite certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The spheres collapsed. An identical set would rematerialise in Agglutinator Knox's office, wherever that was, and he would ensure Governance took the decided action.

  ‘That will be all for today,' said the cave then.

  ‘All…?’

  ‘That will be all for today.’

  He made a conscious effort not to show his surprise. The butterflies in his stomach were dancing in time with his breathing now, throbbing in mad synchrony. When had the cave ever done this before? When had there ever been less than at least fifty quandaries in a day?

  There was nothing else for it. He went back into the sleeping quarters and lay motionless on the bed. An existential hole appeared at his centre. Perhaps they know I’m defective. Of course they must; they’re watching all the time. Possible solution: the approaching spacecraft quandary was a test to appraise my mental state. Did I pass? Overriding conclusion: I am still falling prey to the same anxiety as last night. I should tell Governance at once. Interrupt conclusion: if the approaching spacecraft quandary is genuine, then Governance will consult me again on making a subsequent decision. If I reveal that I am unwell, Governance will refrain from using me and potentially make an ill-informed decision using a Governance official or adviser instead. This could jeopardise the entire planet. Absolute conclusion: I will inform Governance of my mental abnormalities when the crisis has been dealt with. I will most likely be removed from my position and euthanised, but the crisis will have been resolved.

  He tried to return to sleep but could not. In his mind he saw the t’assali cannons two hundred miles above Exurbia’s surface fixing on a single silver pip in interplanetary space.

  What do t’assali cannons look like when they fire? Is there a huge energy discharge accompanied by multicoloured plasma eruptions, or is the beam invisible to the naked eye? Whatever the aesthetic, they would be discharging now. The combined beams would take several seconds to traverse the interval space, then tear the craft open effortlessly. Any crew members who somehow managed to avoid the vaporisation of the beam itself would be immediately sucked into the vacuum, the air in their lungs evacuated in well under a second. The corpses would float silently in the black then, their eyes rendered open in absolute horror, never closing, never wavering, only staring and staring and staring and staring. He felt a deep sickness come upon him.

  This cannot wait. I am already compromised. He would tell Governance at once. He composed an ideal expression of the problem as he donned his robe. “I am currently experiencing -” no, too subjective. “261 is currently experiencing -” yes, that's it, “- some neurochemical abnormalities.” That sounds ambiguous. Perhaps -

  ‘261 will return his attention to the quandary equipment at once.’

  He froze. There had been a development. Neurochemical abnormalities. He would tell them in a moment.

  ‘261 will return -’

  ‘I’m coming,’ he said and retook the central chair. The spheres reappeared presently.

  ‘Day eight thousand seven hundred and twelve, quandary two. T’assali cannons ineffective.’

  He waited for further explanation. None followed.

  ‘Understood. Also?’

  ‘T’assali cannons ineffective.’

  ‘Did they malfunction?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did they fire correctly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the beam reached the ship?’

  ‘No. The t’assali beam was neutralised at a distance of half a kilometre from the hull of the vessel.’

  He felt a sensation percolate up through him, something warm and heady. Relief. No one has died. ‘Neutralised by what?’

  ‘Unknown.’

  Probable: some kind of force-field or advanced defence technology manufactured at the syndicate galactica hub. This wasn’t the first time the syndicate had pulled an unexpected move like that. They have their secrets just like any ruling body.

  ‘How to proceed?’ asked the cave.

  He didn’t bother with the quandary globes.

  ‘It was a test to see if we have developed illegal defence technology. They were relying on us trying to
defend ourselves. If Exurbia had wiremind-designed technology, it would have used it. Now the syndicate know for certain that Exurbia is following the Pergrin Decree. The craft will land in one of the major capitals. It will be an official syndicate visitation. There’s no further danger.’

  ‘You’re quite certain?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, covered in sweat then. ‘I’m quite certain.’

  8

  “Put a beast before a mirror and he won't recognise his own reflection. As we look out into the heavens, I think it's becoming abundantly clear we are a mirror for the stars themselves, and it is the reflection which must return to them.”

  - Tersh Stanislav of Exurbia

  Jura -

  The secretary had pointed the professor to the rooftop. ‘He likes to watch the city in the evening,’ she'd added.

  He entered the tershal chambers. They were much as he had expected: ornate and pompous. On the ceiling of each chamber danced esoteric symbols of Old Erde, a puerile attempt to appear highly cultured to visitors perhaps. The walls of the main chamber were covered in purple streamers. Something moved in the corner of the room. He tried not to show alarm. A gungov. The creature looked him up and down, the mouth quivering and rasping, the flaming orange eyes fixed on his.

  ‘I’m just...I’m visiting the tersh,’ Jura said. Do they even understand Exurbic? The thing didn’t move. Jura took a step to the side. The gungov turned with him. How is it they kill? And is there pleasure in it for them?

  A spiral staircase at the centre of the chamber appeared to lead up to the roof. He fled to it and took the steps three at a time. On the upper level the grand tersh himself sat propped on a couch in half-tershal attire, ageing, bald, and brooding, a glass in hand.