by John Clute
—There are enough lenses on Eolhxir, said Kirtt very quietly inside its master’s bowed head, to bankrupt the Care Consortia.
Teardrop beeped.
A goonish toon bearing the smiley-face sigil of Insort Geront flashed into Freer’s vision, advertising a genitalia masque, much sex and violence guaranteed, of special appeal to offworlder homo sapiens solos.
—I think you should attend, Stinky, murmured Kirtt. —You don’t know anything they don’t know already. It’s only twenty minutes away by floater. It will remind you of Ferocity.
Freer’s eyes flared.
He glanced down at himself.
There was no erection.
—You’re joking, Kirtt, he said. —Okey dokey.
—I’ll watch over you, said the ship Mind. —We might find out something.
Freer touched the tithe sigil hanging round his neck.
—Have we tithed?
—Genome Tax was payable on entry, Stinky. You are passed for all human activities. Go do some face-time. Do you wish to dress?
Freer glanced down at his naked body.
—Does it matter?
—Nix.
—Then I think I will. I don’t like this place.
He found a polished cache-sex hanging like a harlequin face in the frieze of tiles, and placed it over his genitals. The cache-sex snuggled close, its eyes snapped open. Interested flesh sophonts could access via its open-mouth icon a lifestory avatar which would flash a mosaic version of Freer’s life, fabricated out of sitings. On some planet, somewhere down Maestoso Tropic from Trencher, he had once done site for several unbroken days, during which he had fucked a lot, as expected while sited on any net humans still accessed. He raised his arms and a vest embraced him, displaying sigils that designated his Trencher status: unattached merchant. He sprayed on a pheromone-suppressant, so as not to offend non-human bilaterals in case he had to pass through one of the communal arcades; but pocketed an arouser, which smelled like aftershave to him, in case of need. He keyed Teardrop into map default; a red icon now marked his precise whereabouts in Trencher. The icon shone within a tangle of menued ganglions. He was in the middle of a world all right.
—Kirtt?
—Sir.
—I want Sniffer.
—Sniffer coming up, Stinky.
Sniffer whuffed briefly and flew to him from its perch on the tile frieze; attaching itself to his earlobe, it became an earring indistinguishable from any normal human earring comm unit and hung like a pearl. He activated its block on cortex ads, but left its other functions dormant, in accordance with planetary protocol — in Trencher, as in most multi-species entrepot planets, it was impolite to impose reality sanctions on sigilla whose owners might wish to ride in silence.
He stuck a toon spray dispenser into his vest.
‘Aw shit,’ he said aloud through his literal mouth, though softly, to himself. ‘They know I’m here. Might as well enjoy it.’
—Stay, he told the data gloves. —Sit.
They quivered but stayed put.
He walked through Glass Island with its austere rim of tiles, exited into a spiral corridor, where the full splendour of Tile Dance became manifest: every surface covered with mosaics, azulejaria tile dramas out of the memory theatre of Human Earth as she was remembered within the vortices of conclave space, luminescent Wisdom Fish peering through windows in aquaria like Odysseus bemused by islands, railings and panellings of every Terran wood reproducible, candles whose bright tiny flames became harlequin eyes in the seventh intersecting mirror and then became flames again in the eighth, outsider mannequins with vast lips and tits bleeding sugar, sugar and spice. He waved them to cease. He stopped at a panel of dense porcelain-blue glowing tiles, which faceted at his gesture into a bee’s-eye array of mirrors, each small mirror framed ornately with tic-tac-toes executed in blind. Around the panel itself, enamelled lions in glowing cartouches chased each other’s tails, each lion gazing outwards calmly but somehow pixillated; each elaborate mane was braided into runes.
Freer examined himself in the mirrors at the heart of the circle of staring dancing lions. He shrugged. Rather too closely for comfort, he resembled Number One Son, whose goofy wannabe gaze and wooden grin and exaggerated hawk nose parodied studiously, though coarsely, its human model. He bound a glowing freelance sigil into his ponytail. His skin was ruddy (Number One Son’s surface texture was dun), his hair black, his eyes black too, with a slantwise trickster glitter, at times. In person, he was far more vivid than any sigillum which stood in his stead. He balanced on the balls of his feet. He was not twitchy, but seemed always on the verge of a sudden sleek slide into action. He was thick-chested but seemed slender. He drew the attention of fellow homo sapiens without seeming to know why. He touched the side of his own — moderately prominent - hawk nose, gave a small resigned grimace.
A phrase came into his mind . . .
. . . liminal cheesecake . . .
. . . but the meaning fled, if it meant anything at all; and he shrugged.
He selected a dignified mask, free of all but the necessary sigils, and placed it over his face; he had always found masks preferable to botulism fixes. He was dressed now.
He gestured, and the mirror irised within its circle of dancing lions. Freer stepped through into an open gravity- controlled shaft, sank swiftly past the several ship decks or cornices surrounding Glass Island, which sat at the heart of Tile Dance like a pearl in an onion. As he fell down the shaft and towards the world, stories unfolded in the tile facings which lined the shaft; on this occasion, they recounted the heroic past of Trencher, aeons back, before the data-soul of occupied space began to clog its gears. He came to a halt. A mirror, within a circle of dancing lions, opened. He stepped into the eleventh and outermost cornice of Tile Dance, a weave of corridors, gun emplacements, altars, universal windows, port irises.
Teardrop blinked in the diorama of his eye, signalling new input: one of the battle programs Kirtt had spent half their fortune on was already weaving a defence posture around Tile Dance, a pattern Teardrop rendered as a spiderweb at the heart of which lurked a multicoloured arachnoid icon, each of whose limbs menued on request a different defence function. A harsh tattoo stained the centre of the ovoid body; it depicted a bellicose human countenance, heavily scored. A beard hung down, ready for menu requests.
The eyes were shut.
—Does it have a name?
—In chip mode it is called Uncle Sam, murmured Kirtt.
—Meaning?
—A human patriot from long ago on Human Earth, highly bellicose, intensely loyal, very gruff, said Kirtt.
—Sounds designer for moi, Kirtt. Okey dokey. Bring it on line.
—Done.
—Well, Uncle? said Freer. —Are you awake? Welcome to Tile Dance.
The etched face caught fire, the eyes opened.
—Uncle? said Freer into Teardrop.
The archaic eyes of the truculent Uncle Sam glared at him, rimmed by flaming grooves, which shifted and flowed and became the image of an opened fist, a fist appaumy, an heraldic warrior fist apparently aflame. The face of the Uncle Sam was at one and the same time a face and a hand, a hand which was a weapon, a weapon which raised a palm of peace, but a palm clenched. Uncle Sam’s eyes stared at Freer through its burning palm. The clenched fingers above its eyes made a frieze of hair. Beneath the sharp thin nose of the Uncle Sam, inscribed at the centre of the palm almost too small to read, glowed what might be an inscription, but in no language Freer could decipher.
—Thorn allied to apple, said Kirtt.
—What?
—Two lines of poetry, said Kirtt. —In the English of Human Earth. The lines read,
‘Thorn allied to apple,
Child of the rose.’
—Does that sound loyal to you, Kirtt?
—It does, Stinky, designer loyal. I think it means the Uncle Sam is defensive of the home acre that it looks to the future weal of those it serves.
—
Ah.
The eyes of the Uncle Sam gazed deep within Freer’s Teardrop.
—At your service, sirrah, grated the Uncle Sam battle Mind in a chip voice.
—Welcome to Tile Dance.
—Thank you, sirrah.
—Informal diction here, please. Nix sirrah.
There was a pause.
—What shall I call you? grated the Uncle Sam voice.
—Call me Knight Captain O my Captain, call me Shipowner Freer, or sir. Call me Stinky. Call me any time.
—Captain.
—Yes?
—I have been dormant, Captain. I do not know how long. The universe has not been upgraded into real time. I have not been brought up to now. But, sir . . .
—Yes? said Freer. —You can speak in clear to me.
The eyes of the Uncle Sam seemed to flame.
—Yes, sir. This planet, which I understand is now called Trencher, has a rotten taste, sir.
—What do you taste, Uncle?
—I taste data despair. Overload. Seizure. Implosion. I taste plaque.
The face burned within the spider, menus flickering faster than the eye could see.
—I taste vastation.
At first only the occasional theophrast had noticed the occlusions of darkness, had proclaimed the departure of Distinguishable Oneness (or God) from Its (Her) Creation, His Face disfigured by the clenched umbrae, the Anarch Umbra of the Death of God which brought vastation to mortals.
Or so they proclaimed.
But now the taste seemed universal.
Freer silenced the new battle Mind with a look.
—How long has Uncle been dormant? he asked Kirtt.
—There is in orbit a data haven ark which was abandoned about Thirty Billion Heartbeats ago, and has only recently been recovered. An archive of Terran music was aboard, which we have purchased. The Uncle Sam was also aboard, and fitted our requirements. In human years . . .
—I know how many years that makes, muttered Freer. —A thousand, give or take.
—Did you hear that? he said to the Uncle Sam.
—I am not enabled to eavesdrop comm between you and the ship Mind, said the Uncle Sam.
—Thirty Billion Heartbeats, said Freer. —You have been dormant a thousand years, Human Earth reckoning. Welcome back.
—Thank you, Captain, said the Uncle Sam.
—Welcome to hard times, said Freer. —Welcome to now.
The suave homo sapiens shipowner, wearing the chip- sluggish Kirtt within his sensorium, and an ancient half- awake battle Mind in his Teardrop, became visible to the world and to the watchers from orbit at the exit interface where the docking pods grappled Tile Dance into the embrace of Trencher. He was groomed and tithed and did not smell very strong for a human. The planet pressed against the back of his neck.
He stood inside a port-authority bubble affixed to Tile Dance’s flank, in a cloud of toons. He sprayed them. They squeaked indignantly but vamoosed.
—Mowgli instructs you not to spray free-enterprise toons, murmured Kirtt.
Freer sighed; he was in the middle of a world all right.
Spam shat by the toons tickled his toes.
He selected a rental floater from a tongue which extruded from the nearest braid and stuck itself to the bubble, which had opened to receive it. He put up a privacy sticker, paid the statutory guidance fee by plugging his scanner ring into the onboard Insort Geront sigil, which was non-bilateral: three lopsided worms, twining ouroboros, incised around a winged caduceus wand. At the heart of the sigil, glowing letters with an audio function whispered the Insort Geront motto: ‘Enkyklios Paedia’, boasted the glowing motto in a Human Earth tongue earlier than Freer would ever know.
—Kirtt?
—Stinky? spoke the ship Mind in a rusty voice.
—Have I ever known what that means?
—Probably. It means ‘Circle of Meaning’, Stinky.
—News to me.
—Meat brain, murmured the ship Mind.
—Uncle?
—Captain, said the burning face within the spider within Teardrop.
—Can you take over this vehicle?
There was a pause.
—It is done, Captain.
The floater’s tiny local mind was now locked into the Uncle Sam guidance schematic.
—Stick to pink, said Freer.
—Avoid any braid with clog warnings, said Kirtt in comm mode.
Braid clogs could trap passengers for hours, which Freer knew.
—Who are you talking to? he said.
—I have already given Uncle Sam the latest congestion download. The Uncle knows to avoid crowds. I was speaking to you. There are bad congestion figurations throughout Trencher. I predict plaque. Perhaps fairly soon.
—Welcome to now, said Freer. —Uncle, he added, —stay clear of dorms.
Much of the homo sapiens population in Trencher spent most of its time asleep or on dumbfoundingly monotonous site, waiting for clearance to join a generation ark and put their minds to work at chip sorting.
—And Uncle?
—Yes, Captain.
—Watch out for pheromone junkies.
—I have been updated by your ship Mind, Captain. I am aware of the hazard component built into high- congestion multi-species interface events.
—Good, said Freer. —Let’s go.
The floater swished into a pink braid and spun into the world, which could be seen through the translucent braid walls as a fluttering like speckled wings, some iridescent, some dark as night, as they went.
—Remember. Stick to pink.
—Aye aye, Captain, murmured the flaming spider face in the palm of the fist appaumy, defensive, savvy, grizzled.
The floater dodged slower vehicles and walkers; stalkers, on the other hand, were required to dodge the floater: whenever humans congregated in shared space, engaging at times in behaviour seemingly unconnected to mating, there was always it seemed at least one tourist non-bilateral stalker in the vicinity, gazing on from the wings, its nose (whatever passed for its nose) safely sealed, as it delectated the easily decipherable, unending, dogged antics of Freer’s famous species. Normal intraplanetary decorum did not require homo sapiens to dodge stalkers in the flesh. Humans did not much like them.
Most stalkers were in any case sigilla.
Those non-bilaterals who could be defined as pheromone junkies were present in the flesh: they stalked human braids for the pong, lurking with care to avoid being struck by floaters. Some were harmless; some killed for the smell of dying.
The braid did a loop-the-loop, gathering stray capillaries in like knitting, and exited docking country, passing through walls of rock and into a central intersection, seemingly roofed with glass, where bilateral and non-bilateral networks linked briefly, where Trencher opened downwards and up like the veined inner atrium of a dream of cities; vast artificial suns and moons and discs flickered through luminescent cupolas miles above Freer’s head downwards through vertical arcades lined with mirrors. The floater skidded through terrifyingly open air, freefell down a spidery frond curling for hundreds of yards over an abyss that dived downwards to magma. They hurtled into darkness shot by fireflies which turned out to be argosies ferrying homo sapiens upwards, perhaps heading towards an ark and the deepest of senior-citizen sleeps. There were a dozen of them; more. The inside of the world was churning.
—Is this normal?
—Aye aye, said the Uncle Sam.
They continued down, through a great shaft of light, dazzled, sigillated by photonic data flows cascading downwards from far above, perhaps ultimately from orbit, where the great Care Consortia arks shot perpetually their perfume and their honeytrap slogans into the apertures of the planet.
Most of the data streams displayed the Insort Geront logo, the fiery three-snake caduceus almost too bright to read, the marque of the vastest of the godzillas — an ancient Human Earth term for any corporation, whether snail or trad dotcom or seeded nous cube, which havin
g gone rogue was no longer subject to the rule of law of any individual state or planet or system — prating ‘Enkyklios Paedia’ incessantly, boring its mantra deep into the bone of the planet. The brand of Insort Geront made his eyes burn.
—Almost there, said the Uncle Sam as the floater whipped past a stalled argosy (human faces could be seen pressed against the frosted glass like masks, mouths open), shot down a darker side tunnel, and wove through a tripartite nexus where all three species braids joined in recomplicated consort. The Insort Geront sigil began to fade from his retina, after whispering a softsell for Rest Homes in Space.
‘Are you hungry, are you tired, Sirrah Freer?’ it murmured in a tone whose geriatric unction belied the formal obeisance of its address; but left his face in peace at last.
It occurred to Freer that, having put up a privacy sticker, he should not have been addressed by name. He was formally anonymous. It was, at the very least, bad manners.
—Uncle Sam?
—Captain?
—Frisk me.
The icon in his eye grew and glowed.
—Nothing unusual, Captain, said the brusque spider, whose face wore an admonishing stare. —I can detect no traces on you, beyond acceptable limits. The Mowgli dock- engine is maintaining a tracer, which being in clear gave the Insort Geront beam a name to huckster.
—Thank you, Uncle Sam.
—Okey dokey.
—Take me down.
The floater dropped like a plummet through an ancillary braid, rocketed through an iris that seemed large enough to give an ark lebensraum, tumbled deftly through a writhing kaleidoscope which, seen lengthwise, became a spinal cord aimed at the heart of the planet; but just in time, at an intersection where ten kaleidoscopes bearing flesh sapients by the thousand bound themselves into one great knife-shaped columnar braid, the floater slid sideways, through an airlock into atmosphere, on to a rickety debouch platform overlooking the lower depths.
—Retain the floater, he murmured.
The bubble carapace of the floater opened.
—Aye aye, Captain.
He stood in dark open air, only a spindly balustrade protecting him from the whistling abyss. Half a klick across the vertical chasm, the column of braids descended into warm blackness, down towards the inner world. He was alone, except for a few strolling homo sapiens, male and female, mostly naked. Most were wearing traditional Tiazinha masks with huge come-hither lips, though others wore even more ancient aspects of the harlequinade. Inside their masks, the eloquent countenances of the strolling humans could be perceived only by intimates, through comm net face screens whose sensors conveyed mood, gesture, arousal levels. Outside in the world, the bare bodies of the homo sapiens maintained a normal dance of display — arms flinging, breasts high, balls (the scrotums mostly pierced and hung with aspect rings of precious stone) swaying. There were freeze-frame pauses while the masks gazed into space, utterly alone except for comm links. Occasionally, one body touched another. There happened to be no copulation.