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

by Alex McKechnie

  Someone shouted from the back of the forum, a horrified groan more than it was actual speech.

  ‘Whether I am replaced by another imp is unimportant. At its heart, the imp project is an immoral debasement of democratic and civilised principles. It is abhorrent to keep a human being - whether it be man, woman, or child - and an Exurbic and syndicate citizen, confined in a subterranean bunker for the duration of his life, even if it be in the interest of planetary security. The practice must end. I sincerely hope my extraction will result in a change of Governance protocol. Yours, 261, the previous adjudicator of moral quandaries.’

  The image evaporated. The forum was deathly silent. Miss Butterworth put the projector back in her robe, surveyed the audience, and smiled.

  13

  “But there's an altar in the valley, for things in themselves as they are.”

  - David Berman, Old Erde word artisan

  261 -

  ‘Put those on, if you want. They’ll shrink to your size,’ Maria said.

  261 eyed them neutrally.

  ‘They’re called slippers. We usually wear them when we’re in a house or an apartment. Have you worn footwear before?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Here,’ she said and kicked them across.

  Strong possibility: the footwear contains a tracker of some kind to monitor my position.

  ‘Right one first…’ she said. He slipped a bare foot into the fabric. There was a gentle tightening motion from some invisible mechanism inside. He put the second foot into the other and it did the same.

  ‘See? Comfortable, isn’t it?’

  Yes, in a sense, it was.

  ‘I’ll show you the rest of the apartment. We haven’t installed any streams or skript feeds yet, but there’s a whole library upstairs if you want to use it.’

  Strong possibility: they don’t trust me not to try and communicate my location to Governance.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  He looked for the sensation the word pointed to.

  ‘I mean do you want to eat?’

  ‘I don’t need to,’ he said. ‘I think.’

  ‘All right.’

  She took a steaming cup from a partition in the wall. ‘Tsotl tea. You gave me some when I visited you in the cave. I thought I’d return the favour.’

  ‘Understood.’

  He took a sip, then: ‘What’s the likelihood that I have been abducted for the sake of furthering a radical political faction’s agenda?’

  She giggled and brushed a memorytape ribbon of hair from her cheek. ‘I don’t know where to start with that. Firstly, out here we don’t deal in likelihoods. We’re not caves. Secondly, I wouldn’t say we’re a radical political faction. And most importantly, you haven’t been abducted.’

  Notable incidental: I am being primed to execute some kind of political action with a combination of praise and favourable treatment.

  ‘You intend to assassinate the tersh,’ he said, ‘and use the interim period of panic to successfully create a Pergrin crisis.’

  She made a pouting grimace as she thought it over a moment and then, very slowly: ‘Does that bother you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We can talk about it later, it’s not important. Here, let me show you around a little. The door isn’t locked. You can leave any time you like, but I obviously wouldn’t advise it. Can I speak candidly?’

  He nodded.

  ‘ I kept you blindfolded on the way out of the cave for your safety. We weren’t sure how you’d react to the world up here, and honestly we’re still not. If the Governance deep streams are right, you have never left the cave in your life.’

  ‘I believe that's correct.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want you spooked, understand? Now, I could throw literature and zapoei and Exurbic history at you, but it’d be information overload.’ She put her hand up in a mock-whisper. ‘And you might explode. Instead, we’re going to do it little by little, get you acclimatised. Like climbing a mountain.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Have you seen pictures or stereopticon films of Exurbia?’

  ‘No visual stimuli is permitted in the cave.’

  ‘Right. Well, here,’ she said and held out a hand.

  He stood motionless.

  ‘Put yours in mine. I won’t hurt you. Promise.’ She entwined their fingers. ‘I don’t want to scare you. Seer Fortmann thinks I shouldn’t even be talking to you this early on, but I feel otherwise. If I show you something a little intense, you won’t go all woolly on me will you?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  'You won’t lose your mind?’

  Strong likelihood: colloquial reference to mental instability.

  ‘I will make an attempt to remain in possession of my faculties.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  She led him by the hand to a closed room-spanning partition.

  ‘Do you know how big Bucephalia is?’ she said.

  ‘A population of nine million, seven hundred thousand at last Governance estimate on behalf of Agglutinator Sher -’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘How big it is.’ The partition began to fold itself back with a gesture command from the girl. Nothing but unfiltered light at first, hot white rays of the all-sun breaking into the room. He stepped back involuntarily. She stroked his thumb with hers. ‘It’s all right. Trust me.’

  The partition pulled back entirely then. Beyond the transparency, hundreds of feet below, was a chaotic tangle of spires and glass and chrome and light, crafts shuttling about between countless towering structures.

  ‘There's nothing to fear of it,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  What do you think.

  ‘What do I think,’ said 261.

  ‘Yes. What do you think?’

  ‘This,’ he said slowly, as though folding each word over on itself like a napkin, ‘is Exurbia?’

  ‘This is Exurbia,’ said the girl. ‘Look.’

  She pointed to a helical structure in the middle distance, a towering bulk of glass and chrome.

  ‘That’s the Bureau of the Moralising Imp.’

  He nodded attentively and waited for her to elaborate. ‘The Moralising Imp,’ he echoed.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Please further explain what that means.’

  'Do you have a name?’

  ‘The cave addresses me as 261.’

  ‘No, do you have a name, a designation?’

  ‘The cave addresses me as 261.’

  She seemed somehow satisfied with that answer.

  ‘261,’ she said. 'I don’t want to alarm you, I’m trying to be very careful about that. And Fortmann will have my head for telling you this all now, but you’re going to find it out sooner or later. That building there is the Bureau of the Moralising Imp. A better political machine has never been designed. A few hundred feet below sits a man in a very dull room. He has never seen the world up top. He has never tasted good food, heard good music, made love, or poured a glass of liquor. He doesn’t have political allegiances, and, as far as Governance can help it, he doesn’t hold opinions on anything whatsoever. He is perfectly impartial. And sometimes difficult decisions materialise which everyone agrees Governance can’t deal with. Sometimes there are choices to make that a man in power, or a man who knows a man in power, will only make with his interests in mind. And the only party left that can step in at a time like that,’ she rubbed his thumb again, ‘is a truly impartial one.’

  ‘What is the likelihood,’ said 261, ‘that there is another dimension to this explanation that is lost on the public?’

  ‘Do you mean what if the Bureau of the Mor-Imp is just a cover?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I doubt it. We had a revolution about a hundred years ago, here in the capital. Many Bucephalians died, a few Governance types too. The people were sick of corruption, sick of tyranny. Some academic proposed an impartial judge to adjudicate difficult decisions. Well, said the public, Governance wil
l just choose somebody corruptible and install him instead. No, said the academic. We’ll choose somebody free of outside influence, somebody who can’t possibly benefit from bribery or coercion, who has no vested interests in anything beyond problems and solutions. And that,’ she said, staring at him certainly, ‘was your function.’

  ‘I am one hundred years old?’ he said, sincerely.

  She giggled. ‘No. There were others before you. But you’re definitely the public’s favourite so far. All the lottery winners have given you great writeups after their visits to the cave.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And because of them, the public think you’re virtuous. Hence, the moralising imp.’

  They watched the tower in silence a while. Moralising imp. He knew both of the words, but they were curious when used in conjunction.

  ‘But that’s not a life anybody would want to lead, trapped underground, the same day repeated over and over. It’s not something my friends and I wanted to see continued.’

  ‘For what reason?’ he said.

  ‘Because we believe in total human liberty, among other things.’

  ‘What is the likelihood that your faction supports liberty, even for those you disagree with?’

  ‘A very high likelihood, 261.’

  ‘Then you believe in the freedom of Exurbic Governance to keep me incarcerated?’

  'No. We don’t believe in that freedom.’

  ‘Then you don’t believe in absolute freedom.’

  ‘It’s complicated. Come, this isn’t important right now. The point is that you’ll never have to go back to the cave again, that you can lead a life. What’s the first thing you remember, your earliest memory I mean?’

  ‘The cave.’

  ‘Nothing before?’

  ‘Not that I can recall.’

  ‘And did they ever send anyone down? Anyone to look after you?’

  He couldn’t remember any such visits. ‘The Bureau lottery,’ he said. ‘Visitors. Just like when you came.’

  ‘Gnesha, that’s the only human contact you’ve ever had?’

  ‘Correct.’

  She stoked his chin with her free hand.

  ‘You have stubble coming through already. It’s a side effect of the testosterone synthesiser. You’ll have hair on your head soon too. Does it feel strange?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said 261.

  ‘Well,’ she said and produced a hand mirror from one of the room’s cabinets. ‘Take a good look at yourself.’

  He raised the mirror to his face. Significant physical differences. His face was broader now, his jaw pronounced. The previously hairless ridges of his eyebrows had a little hair there; the marble horizon of his head was sprouting tiny black rushes. His entire face seemed to itch all of a sudden. He enjoyed these alterations. There was a pleasant aesthetic to them somehow.

  ‘Have you noticed…other changes?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware.’

  ‘Anatomical changes. With your lower parts.’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Well, those will become a little more active too, soon. You’ve been basically androgynous most of your life, thanks to Governance engineering. Gnesha, if the public knew what you’d been through. And when you’re strong enough, you can join the cause.’

  ‘The cause? Please elaborate.'

  ‘The Ixenite struggle.’

  ‘Ixenite struggle. The attempt to build a functioning wiremind and further advance the evolution of intelligence in the cosmos by creating self-perpetuating machine successors.’

  ‘You make it sound so dry. It doesn’t matter. I think you’ll understand it all in time. All that Governance propaganda has probably skewed it all for you anyway.’

  He felt an involuntarily surge of something then that made him want to raise his voice and release her hand and move frantically, though he knew not where to.

  ‘What is the likelihood,’ he said, eyes unwaveringly fixed on the helical tower, ‘that I was abducted for political reasons? What is the likelihood that I have been removed from the cave on account of my intimate knowledge of interior Governance workings? What is the likelihood,’ his pulse racing then, his brow creased, ‘that I have been reappropriated not on account of your concern for my wellbeing, but for use as a utility, or a conduit, or an appliance? Leverage: the act of using weight for an intended purpose, physically, or figuratively. Manipulation: the act of contriving events or invoking deception to realise a specific goal. Conspiracy: the -’

  ‘261,’ said the girl, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘- act of organising in secret, to the detriment of -’

  ‘Calm down. Nobody’s trying to manipulate you, or use you as -’

  ‘- another political body. Furthermore -’

  He pulled his hand back from hers, his face flushed red then, breath frantic and irregular, the steely gleaming city beyond the transparency beating like a failing heart.

  ‘- masking a secret so as to deceive an individual, or public majority at large.’

  She took a handheld device from her pocket. 261 heard the apartment door open behind moments later.

  ‘Coercion: the act of -’

  Something hot and sharp and pointed entered his neck and a muscular hand came down like a clamp on his shoulder.

  ‘You see?’ said a male voice. ‘It’s too early. What in Plovda’s name did you say to him?’

  The girl looked glum now, keeping eye contact with 261 as he sank to his knees, his vision and hearing dying quickly.

  ‘You can’t just pull a fish out of water,’ said the voice from behind. ‘You’re overloading him, for Gnesha’s sake.'

  The imp thought of the unimposing features of the cave, of the vacuum tubes, of his futon, of the strange forces that had pulled him from the habitat and deposited him here. A world of towers and chrome, of glass, of half-truths and needles in the neck. And then, the dark closing in, he thought of nothing at all.

  14

  “I go to seek a Great Perhaps.”

  - The last recorded words of François Rabelais, Old Erde word artisan.

  Jura -

  The laboratory would be empty all night. He had laid the tools out on the workbench an hour ago or so, but had paused just to watch the machine a while as it worked. It isn't supposed to happen like this. A gunfight, a desperate struggle, but not like this. The rivets and screws would come apart quietly and without incident, the burning orange would die in a sudden flash, and that would be the death of it then. He would report the parts to the demolition team and they would come to the laboratory in the morning with their techne-glitzes. The components would go up in a single flash of blue smoke. There might be other rigs in the future, other Ixenites smart enough to actually get the recipe right, but it wasn’t likely. Besides, he thought, the tersh will have an entire security detail watching my back from now until the day I die. Nebulous shapes formed in the heart of the orange orb: a naked human figure, a pyramid, a roaring lion. God's egg.

  He took a spanner and started on the larger nuts. Whichever Ixenite faction had worked on this had been a smart one. He hadn’t seen a design quite like it before. The outer casing came away easily enough. The orb pulsed on, undeterred. The vent plates came next, and finally the heat exchange. There was only the sensor matrix now, and the spinning rings, still furiously gyrating. He tuned the sensor matrix over in his hands. There was writing on the underside of the main plate, initials: A.H. Anna? Aldwin? Whoever it was, the poor bastard would be in the Bureau of Rehabilitation now, getting whatever it was they did in there done to them.

  Sorry A.H. I suppose everything was in vain, for you. It may well have been the most important thing you ever did with your life, and now I get the chance to disassemble it. And if I don’t, A.H., they’ll disassemble me. There was still half a bottle of laboratory-distilled zapoei in his assistant’s spare parts cupboard. He took a glass, poured a finger, and raised it in the dark of the laboratory and the orange glo
w of the t'assali and tried to imagine A.H.’s face. She would be a woman, dark haired and with a strong brow, freckles, her face set always in a playfully sardonic smirk.

  He finished the zapoei and gave a last long look at the orange orb. It was ridiculous. Miss hell-haunted Butterworth probably has detection equipment on her boat anyway. And she doesn't seem like the sort to brush off a potential Pergrin crisis. Another day perhaps, years from now, when some intrepid and gifted youth devises a way to cheat the system. Another day perhaps. He cut the main power couplers and orb dissipated like steam. Then he sat in the dark a long while, picturing the grand tersh’s face with vivid hostility, imagining each and every cruel line that ran through his forehead. I should kill you, for what you’ve done here. I should take a glitz to your belly the way your prized lieutenant almost did to me. I should rip you open.

  Then, almost entirely driven by muscle-memory, he called out an ID string to the stream feed. A grainy image of a women in her forties appeared on the laboratory’s far wall.

  ‘It’s late,’ she said.

  ‘I like your hair,’ he said. ‘Red’s good on you.’

  ‘Can we do this tomorrow? Whatever this is? It’s past midnight and you’re drunk.’

  ‘I’m not drunk.’

  ‘You only call when you’re drunk.’

  ‘That’s not true, and I’m not drunk.’

  'Well, just call back tomorrow.’ The woman went to gesture the feed dead.

  ‘Wait,’ Jura said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just talk to me. A few minutes. What’s wrong? Are you going to get in trouble?’

  She checked behind her shoulder guiltily.

  ‘Heeeee’s behind youuuu,’ Jura said.

  ‘You piece of shit,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve got two minutes, and the only reason you’ve got those two minutes is because you’re never desperate enough to stop me hanging up. So I know it must be bad.’

  ‘Did you see me on the streams?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And were you proud of your dear ex-husband? For standing there at the tersh’s side?’