Appleseed

by John Clute

  ‘Halfling,’ he said.

  Vipassana chirruped low in its throats.

  —Full augment, Freer cried down all the aisles of conclave space, and was obeyed.

  His arm began to knit.

  His severed hand leaped upwards like a salmon to its bone and sinew.

  Blood began to climb back up his ankles.

  As it seemed lazily, but faster than human eye could follow, Vipassana’s nearest arm sliced at Freer’s head to decapitate him. This took a thousandth of a Heartbeat.

  Freer’s head moved aside just fast enough. The scythe missed.

  —Vipassana, said the Knight Captain of Tile Dance, in a voice of echoes; ‘Vipassana,’ said the merchant whose name was Freer, acoustic, helium high because of augment.

  They spoke together.

  —We grant your boon, they said; ‘We grant your boon,’ they said.

  —Halfling? carolled the frog voices of the three frog eidolons, in a falsetto lifting far above the range of human ears.

  —We grant your boon, Vipassana.

  ‘We grant you final death,’ piped Betty Boop.

  This was the Tao.

  —Awww, gurgled the frogs.

  The scythes sliced and swung to decapitate.

  But when they attempted to swing across the fire, the fire ate them and severed them at the root, and the gods and goddesses of the Celestial Planisphere of Vipassana toppled to the burning floor, gaped upwards through eyes which bulged suddenly, polychromatic and strangely sultry, like fish brought too fast to vacuum.

  They writhed as though attempting to escape the flesh, attempting to return home.

  But clearly Vipassana was unable to leave its flesh of frogs. It writhed in the prisons of murled flesh, all that remained of the platoon Vipassana had awoken from coffins deep in Tile Dance. The surviving golems stood round about, as rigid as dolmens.

  —Is this a fairy trap? hissed the frog mouths.

  —Nix, said the Knight Captain. —I am holding you myself. I have taken Tile Dance back from you. She is no longer slaved. You have lost.

  —A boon then, hissed the mouths.

  The Vipassana body ensemble had sunk into a stew of burned parts, scales flaking off its hides like moth wings drawn into a lamp. The charred stumps generated an automated brandishing movement or two for a Heartbeat, then stilled.

  A mouth pustulated.

  —You know me, it said, almost crooning.

  Freer stepped through the flames and beckoned and the platform turned and grew and became floor. He stood upright in the hologram-sphere heart of Ynis Gutrin, glowing as brightly there as if he had been clothed in fire, and continued to reassemble his mortal form, shining more and more brightly. Now that his arm was whole again, his fingers flexed normally into a fist appaumy. His skull no longer spilt its burden, his eyes gleamed safely from within their sockets. Ynis Gutrin lay within the nerve endings of the Knight Captain, or it was the other way around. His skin was as burnished as chain mail. Something began to burn, not meat, as though some divine afflatus were readying itself to leave.

  But the spirit did not leave the flesh. The longing radiance sank back into the semblance of flesh again, the meat puppet contours of the man became once again all there was to view of the being clothed (or so it seemed) in Freer.

  —We cannot be heard, he said. —Do you yield?

  —I yield, said the Vipassana. —How do you know me?

  —By your troth?

  —He yields, by his troth, whispered Kath through lions couchant at every portal within Tile Dance.

  —Troth, said the Vipassana. —You know me.

  —Yes, said the Knight Captain. —I know that you are halved. I know that your jack self is caught in a fairy trap on the Alderede. This is correct?

  The Vipassana frogs seemed to relax for a tiny fraction of the passing of a Heartbeat.

  —Nay, sirrah, crooned a voice or two.

  —No?

  —No. No, sirrah. Not quite. I am the jack.

  Jacks were not meant to go naked: it was like bathing in acid for a jack to go naked.

  Freer’s dark eyes moistened swifter than thought then cleared.

  —I apologise, jack Vipassana. But you seem flyte, you dress flyte. You kill when it is not self-defence, Vipassana. How is this from a jack?

  —I learned.

  —Yes? Tell me. Sacred is the new.

  For an instant — for a feather of a pulse of a Heart — FreeLance wore a child’s smile.

  —A very long time ago, said Vipassana, —we were captured, my sibling and I, by Opsophagos or his sire or his sire’s sire’s sire, which of them matters little, for they are all the same gut, they are all intestines of the World- Eater who sired them. This was long ago, in the time immemorial, before your poison-green Human Earth was covered in the permanent snow she sleeps under still. This was when we still hoped your species would grow up and enter the great search; but it did not happen. Nix it did not. They tricked me into the air of Human Earth, they severed me from my sibling, they peeled me like an egg, they skinned me alive, sirrah, very slowly. But they were in no hurry, the sound I made as they worked on me was as tasty a sound as mortal flesh on being eaten alive. I have no skin, I am not half, I am the hollow of the half no mirror shows.

  —Why did you say World-Eater?

  —This flyte skin you see is the skin of my flyte sibling. It was glued with acids on to my bare organs by Opsophagos or his sire or the World-Eater. Then they froze me to await you.

  —World-Eater?

  —They froze a data haven ark to hold me, and secreted it in Trencher sector, because sooner or later you would pass there. You couldn’t beachcomb forever. I was dead for a Hundred Billion Heartbeats, this was a blessing, but then you were sensed careening up lontanari wormholes with your Sancho, soon you would be sliding into Law Well, doing your trade. They woke the ark, which maydayed, as though it had awoken from some trauma or seizure, it was a honeypot, full of old data. I was still frozen but very quickly began to feel time winding me up. Then, as soon as Tile Dance entered Law Well and went chip, the local Harpe commander arranged to make available to you through the Trencher engine a battle Mind at a price you couldn’t refuse, and then substituted me. And you bought me.

  —Not the full story. It seems I bought SammSabaoth too.

  —Stinky, you can blame me for that, said the voice of Johnny Appleseed from a privy alcove somewhere deep in conclave space. —It’s a long story. Goes way back. We go way back, us saviours of the universe.

  —No matter who bought us, you should feel no blame. Opsophagos or his sire did their job well, they stitched me together seamlessly. My skin is sweet to the taste, I have the taste of a battle Mind of ancient lineage. I was catnip to the likes of Kirtt. But the good ancient skin which took you in, the skin of my sibling, which I wear seamlessly, is poison to me. It is a cloak of Nessus. Each Hearbeat is a Thousand Heartbeats long, I die to the beat. Since you awoke me on Trencher, I have been dying again, a thousand deaths times a thousand times a thousand. I crave the boon you offer, sirrah. I wish to end this dying. Unzip me.

  —SammSabaoth is entire, said AppleSeed privy.

  In the world, a fraction of a Heartbeat had passed.

  —World-Eater? Freer repeated. —Who?

  —World-Eater, said Vipassana. —Just a phrase. He had no name in particular that I knew. You would call him God. Kill me.

  —You are wrong. I do not call God that.

  —Then you do not know yet.

  Lances of flame intagliated the Freer skin.

  —What do I fail to know? he said burning. —Yet?

  —Tell me then, if you will not end me till you know, crooned the Vipassana. —Tell me what you think plaque is.

  Freer’s body darkened back down to flesh.

  —Plaque is seizure, he said. —It’s the corpse left by information when it dies. It’s what happens when a Capo di Capi Net suffers overload. It corrodes everything that thinks, Ma
de or born. Entropy made visible. Alzheimer.

  —Is that all?

  Under full augment the world stood still as though to listen.

  —The theophrasts also say that plaque is the scar left by God when He abandoned the universe. Hence the darkness of vastation, which is our lot as mortals.

  —The theophrasts are wrong, pealed a frog. —Plaque is not a sign of the absence of God, Captain, piped the Vipassana voices into the wind. —Nix, Stinky, it is the reverse of that. Plaque is the spoor of God.

  The frog bodies shook in a wind of flame that issued from the Knight Captain’s clenched fist.

  —O? said Freer. —Sooth?

  The frog bodies bent into the wind but were not burned.

  —Plaque is the corpse left by God when He comes to eat, crooned Vipassana with a wise froggie smile. —It is a consequence of feeding frenzy. Kill me.

  —Nix.

  —Plaque is the sputum of the living God, who is the devourer of information, the World-Eater, the Glutton who will not stop until the universe is dead. Kill me.

  —Nix.

  —That is why those theophrasts who are sensible call the universe an orchard, sang Vipassana longing for death. —That is why it is correct for them to say that worlds are apples, and that you are a seed. Kill me.

  —Nix.

  But Freer ceased the flames that did not burn.

  —Opsophagos? he said at last. —Who is he?

  —He is a son of God, Stinky. Kill me.

  A frog body launched itself at Freer, but he caught the body in his arms - which were whole, for they had knitted — and he held the frog body of Vipassana close to his own body and he kissed Vipassana gently on its blubbering lips.

  —Patience, he said. —I promise you the peace you beg, Made Mind of absolute location. But nix for a while. Ten Heartbeats max. The war is starting.

  The frog’s saucer eyes closed in submission.

  —Does your flyte self also ask for death?

  The eyes opened.

  —Flyte sibling is the mirror of my state, sang Vipassana in his old unstoppable voice. —He is nothing but skin, a hide nailed to a cross in the wind of time. Through her open mouth can be seen the fires of Hell. Stars shine through his mouth. The universe is not outside my flyte sister; it is inside and claws its way out, searing him. There can be no worse fate for the flyte aspect of a Made Mind than to vomit the universe from within. It is the wrong way round, as you must know, Stinky. Flytes are the inside of the outside.

  —I know.

  —Opsophagos rides him. The wind that comes through my flyte is his scryer and his comm net. He rides the wind of my brother’s scream, which is the sound of the wind of time. That is how Opsophagos speaks to me through all the shields of Klavier. That is how he bypasses the chip censors within Law Well. A trillion deaths pock through my sister’s skin from inside in order that Opsophagos may gossip. Pock, crooned the Vipassana frog in FreeLance’s arms, —pock, pock. Pock. Pock.

  The skin mottled then smoothed.

  —My brother has served Opsophagos for long enough. For aeons his mouth has conveyed the screeds of Opsophagos. Her servitude has lasted many of what you might have called centuries when you were simply Freer. But you never were that.

  For an instant, the frog eyes of the Made Mind of absolute location seemed to point the compass like a Planisphere.

  —Think, Knight Captain. Think how you would suffer if your Lance aspect were hung solo in the wind.

  —You know, said Freer softly.

  —I know that Freer is jack, sirrah, whispered Vipassana.

  —Sooth.

  —I know the secret of homo sapiens, sirrah.

  —Tell me the secret.

  —That homo sapiens are jack in flyte clothing, sirrah. That your species is deaf because your skins are closed. That you cannot hear God ask for food, that you cannot answer God when He bellows through the firmament: What kind of dish is that to set before a king? And that it is for that reason, because you are deaf, that you cannot sup commensally with your fellow species. But it is also why you will be the saviour of the universe. For you cannot hear the siren song of God demanding that you become meat, and you will be able to face God to His Face. You will be a lance in the belly of God.

  —It is for this that I am beginning to awake? said Freer through the awakening skin of Lance.

  —Of course, Stinky, said a voice a thousand layers deep in conclave space like a wind about to bell the sails.

  He knew the voice but forgot instantly.

  —It is durance vile to remain flesh, sirrah, continued Vipassana. —It is time for us to die. Time, sirrah, you know what Time is. You must remember, sirrah, now that you are legion. Time is what God rides to eat. My flyte brother begs for death. We beg for death. I give you the boon of knowledge in exchange for death. I have further boons. Call your companions to the flesh. I have gifts for them.

  —Okey dokey.

  Freer placed the frog semblance on the sandalwood floor. It gave a galvanised twitch and scuttled back to its ilk, shivering.

  —KathKirtt? he said. —Appleseed?

  With a movement deeper than air, he beckoned.

  Horns sounded in the atriums of conclave space.

  Johnny Appleseed blinked into sight at the centre of Ynis Gutrin; a krewe of masks fluttered edgeways through the gold grouting that stained the viewscreens of Ynis Gutrin all the colours of the rainbow.

  —Boyo, said Appleseed. His voice sounded slightly hollow under his tin pot. —You called?

  —Stinky? chorused the masks, both flyte and jack.

  Appleseed’s stringy arms seemed to float in the garden of golden air. There was a smell of garlic. The masks shaped themselves into their normal defensive halo around the beckoner.

  —Vipassana and I have come to an agreement, said Freer. —He has boons to grant.

  There was a pause, a millisecond flicker in the world.

  —KathKirtt, said the Vipassana.

  The frog eyes rolled comically.

  —Vipassana? said KathKirtt.

  A fierce flyte eye blinked through the diorama of the masks.

  —KathKirtt, you will remember our journey from Trencher. You will remember that when Johnny Appleseed penetrated security you were forced to terminate for a thousand seconds. You know now that I was enabled to disobey your command to die. That I remained hidden in the wind of time blowing through my flyte, the wind covered me. That I scoured Tile Dance for her ancient lore. I learned a very great deal during that thousand seconds. I remember everything . . .

  —So?

  —Would you like your thousand seconds back?

  A burning lion stood at the heart of Ynis Gutrin. It leaped across the chamber. The wind of its passage would have wrecked Number One Son, but the caul was impermeable. A lion mouth opened above the frogs. Then the great body knelt.

  A choir of KathKirtt voices aahed.

  —Yes, a voice said.

  —Yes, another said.

  —I am open all hours, said a frog with wooing eyes. —Ride me.

  —Thank you, sang a choir of KathKirtt.

  The lion placed on the frog body a paw whose claws were sheathed, and lowered its head as though to pray.

  A millisecond passed.

  The lion raised its feline female head, its amber male eyes.

  —Freer! growled the lion of KathKirtt. —I have the thousand seconds. We are reborn. Grant Vipassana his request, FreeLance. Kill Vipassana.

  —Soon.

  The lion grew vast wings of fire and sleet and leaped into the warm air of Glass Island with a sound like applause, trailing scintillae of fire which burned nova-bright but charred nothing of the physical world.

  The lion flew in a narrowing gyre as though ascending cornices into the next heaven.

  —So, Johnny, said Freer. —Do you wish a gift as well?

  —I’m a bit old for presents, said the codger.

  —Will you allow Vipassana to make a gift
to you?

  —Guess I’m shy.

  —Perhaps you should be. You have brought Klavier to this pass, Johnny.

  —Me, sonny?

  —You.

  —Ah so, said Johnny Appleseed.

  —Thought it was time to trigger a conclusion to your search, did you, Johnny?

  —Might put it that way.

  —Are you satisfied with progress so far? Satisfied with the conflagration? Do you really think Opsophagos may have bitten off more than he can chew? Do you think we may find Eolhxir at last, now that Ferocity and I have eaten each other and she knows my ship and I know her dance?

  —Might put it that way.

  —Do you think I may be able to pilot Klavier home?

  —Yep.

  —Okey dokey, said the Knight Captain of Tile Dance whose face was burnished steel, said Freer whose face was the jack face of love.

  His feet flickered in a little jig on the smoking floor.

  AppleSeed lifted his eyes, his glad-seeming gregarious flesh and the bones performed a tricky homo sapiens grin. But under the apple flesh and under the tin pot hat FreeLance could see the naked map face of the jack twin within: the seed of longing. The AppleSeed face, which was a mappemonde shaped like an apple, shook as though a tree stood in a wind.

  A breath of air stirred in the council chamber of Tile Dance.

  —Hurry, please, said a frog.

  The convener of the crew of Klavier turned to the relics of Vipassana.

  —So, young froggie me lad, what do you have for me?

  —A gift which it is easy for me to bestow, said the Made Mind of absolute location. —But hard to accept.

  A frog made a courteous saliva-drenched smiling mouth.

  —My gift is as plain as the map on your face, it continued. —Why don’t you ask me the question?

  —Ask what?

  But the codger’s voice was trembling.

  —Ask me how to get where you want to go, Johnny, said the Made Mind of absolute location. —Ask me how to find the planet of the Tree of Lenses, whose contours are written in your face.

  Indeed, for an instant, the mappemonde glowed tattoo- bright.

  Then the face guarded itself again.

  —Go on, said Johnny Appleseed.

  —Tell me, then, Johnny Come Marching, whispered the wide wet skewed frog mouths, —how long since you began your search? How many Heartbeats? How long at your behest has Klavier been ransacking Maestoso for a clue, how long have you been cruising up and down the star- lanes doing lube jobs for arks, how many deaths have you had to archive, how many memories have you had to save, all against the day you find the Tree of Lenses and make your deposit?